


Lessons from the Past: Warriors of Virtue, Warriors of Vice

by Nievelion



Series: Different Tales, Different Lessons [8]
Category: Kung Fu Panda (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Attempt(s), Bar Room Brawl, Blood and Gore, Death, Drama, F/M, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Historical Figures, Loyalty, Male Bonding, Male Friendship, Seduction, Sister-Sister Relationship, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 37,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21755563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nievelion/pseuds/Nievelion
Summary: Stepping back in time, we encounter several critical moments from the past ofA Different Lesson's world: Captain Vachir, in his youth, helps defend Beijing (and the Emperor) from a Mongol invasion; Wu Xuan and Qiao Yong (the fathers of Mei and the Wu Sisters, and Tai Lung, respectively) foil an assassination attempt; Po's father Bao discovers his bloodthirstiness in warfare; and a slightly older Xuan takes his daughter Mei to visit Wu Qing and her daughters while reminiscing on how they met.
Relationships: Qiao Yong & Wu Xuan (OCs), Vachir & Emperor Chen (OC), Wu Xuan & Wu Jia, Wu Xuan/Wu Qing (OCs), Wu Xuan/Xu Mei (OCs)
Series: Different Tales, Different Lessons [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529432
Kudos: 1





	1. The Tale of Vachir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of this vignette is dedicated to Michael Clarke Duncan.

With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, his shoulder slumping for a reason other than the weight of his armor, Captain Vachir gripped the stone embrasure with both callused hands and peered out the arrow slit at the land far below. He wasn't perturbed by the height, of course, despite the fact that he stood in one of the highest turrets of the archery tower that rose over the Zhengyangmen Gate of Beijing; if he were to cross to the other side of the rather barren room, he could look down upon the Forbidden City and the Emperor's palace directly behind the tower, an incredible view that few ever had the chance to receive. Nor was the land below unappealing to look at, at least in the best of times, seeing as there were two rivers, the Yongding and the Chaobai, as well as rolling plains which extended south and east in contrast to the rugged hills and mountains which dominated to the west and north.

The reason for his frustration, smoldering fury, and growing despair was what spread across those plains…pouring down onto and across them from the steppes and peaks to the west…surging and flowing in rivers of gray iron and gleaming bronze up toward the unprotected Outer City, their ululating battle cries and rallying roars mingling with the screams of the wounded and dying, the clashing of arms and the hissing of sheets of arrows beneath the slate-gray skies. The armies of Dayan Khan, direct descendant of Kublai Khan and ruler of the Mongol Empire, come to the capital itself to bring down the Ming.

The rhino shook his head, gritting his teeth. Even now, so many months into this siege, he couldn't believe it had come to this. Not only that the Mongols had managed to breach the Great Wall so as to attack Beijing, but that war had begun in the first place. Despite the fact his family's dynasty had fallen over a hundred years ago, Dayan had not been hostile to China at first. There had been peace treaties, exchanges of gifts and education for the ruling families' heirs, and even open-trade contracts to establish regular merchant caravans between the empires. But all that had ended when his envoy had been murdered at court.

Vachir snarled to himself. That had been the work of Chancellor Meng Tao, a noble whom Chen had believed to be unquestionably loyal, honorable, and reliable but who it turned out had fooled them all. Unbeknownst to any in the Imperial court, the Tibetan antelope had secretly resented the empire for past policies against his land and people, and so he had sworn to bring the dynasty down and become the next emperor in its stead.

Having learned of unrest and dissent among the various Mongol tribes—specifically, that some of them did not wish for peace with China but instead longed to sack the capital and regain the glory of their Yuan ancestors—he had clandestinely contacted the chieftain of the most powerful and belligerent of the tribes, the Khalkha. With the aid of stolen maps, significant bribes, and disguises as common laborers, Meng had assisted a group of Khalkha assassins in gaining entrance to the Forbidden City where they had slain the envoy in his bed—after which, of course, the treacherous courtier had double-crossed his allies, shrilly summoning the royal bodyguards to kill the "wicked barbarians" before they could reveal his duplicity.

It had taken some time, and a great deal of investigation by Chen's spies and prefects, to discover what had truly taken place, with the truth coming out only when gatekeepers testified to recognizing Meng with the unknown new palace workers and a subsequent search of his rooms had managed to uncover a secret stash of the letters the chancellor had exchanged with the Khalkha chieftain. But by then it was far too late, as the enraged Dayan Khan had declared war on the Ming for this breach of trust and honor, believing that the death of his envoy had been planned by the Emperor and pinned upon innocent Mongols as scapegoats rather than the reverse.

Chancellor Meng had, of course, been tried and executed for his crimes (since there was no reason to keep him alive, seeing as he would never admit to his treason), and envoys with this news as well as detailed explanations of the documents and evidence in the case had been sent to Dayan Khan…who had subsequently and summarily slain them in turn. Partly due to the fact he'd already conquered Ningxia by then and been subjected to an ambush by Commander Wang that had nearly led to his capture, but mostly due to the Khan's sheer stubbornness and pride.

And now…now there seemed no hope, no way to end the hostilities without one side or the other being obliterated, one leader or the other slain in battle. The Mongols had been driven to the Kherlen River, then counterattacked with raid after raid over the frontier; forts had been built at Xuanhua and Datong. And then they had succeeded in storming the Great Wall and swept down upon Beijing. For months now, the siege had continued, and the capital and empire would have fallen long ago if not for the supplies brought in on the Grand Canal. As it was, he didn't know how much longer the army could hold out, or whether reinforcements from the cities of the south would arrive in time to aid them.

Which left Vachir himself in an unenviable position. Despite his species being Javan in origin, his family had relocated to the Mongolian steppes long ago, even before Oogway had come to the Valley of Peace, and were proud and honorable warriors of the Uriankhai tribe. A tribe which, for the most part, had thrown in its lot with the Hans rather than their fellow Mongols, dividing from the Golden Horde and refusing to support Genghis either in his far-ranging conquests. Which was why Flying Rhino, and all his descendants, had either served the Emperor as soldiers, governors, and kung fu warriors or actively manned the borders to keep out Mongol incursions. A fact which many among the Yuan, including Dayan, considered base betrayal.

Not that he had any intention of abandoning Chen or the capital to their fate, nor would he flee in cowardice from the battlefield; should it come down to it, he would fight with his last breath, and shed the last drop of his blood defending China and the noble ruler who had earned his respect and loyalty through the fair and just promulgation of law and order that had characterized his reign.

But he was fairly certain that if it came to that, the fight itself would be…awkward, rife with uncertainty, difficulty, and no small amount of guilt. How would he deal with it if he came across kinsmen in battle whom he would be forced to kill? What if he came face-to-face with the Khan himself? They had already fought once before, on the slopes of Tavan Bogd outside Chorh-Gom, and their parting had been…less than friendly.

It seemed, though, that his worries and fears were about to be put to the test, as if the gods had heard his thoughts and brought them to life. He was still gazing out into the dismal day, reflecting bitterly that while the Inner City (and the palace) was safe and protected behind its massive wall, the Outer City had had only the far distant Great Wall to the north and west to keep it from being overrun. _If we survive this, I've gotta convince Chen to build an Outer Wall… _Then he suddenly heard footsteps racing up the stairwell behind him and swiftly whirled about; when a soldier or messenger rushed like that during a siege, it was never good news.

Moments later the courier appeared, a young fox dressed in robes which were once fine and rich but now sported several holes, numerous patches of sweat and dirt, and even a few food stains; clearly he hadn't had a chance to change or wash in some time. No one had. "_Duizhu_! Oh thank the gods you're here! I couldn't find anybody else…"

The rhino wasn't known for being a father to his men, or if he was it was a stern, demanding, and frankly quite harsh one; compassion, kindness, and especially friendliness were not his strong suit. But he could tell this young man was nearly terrified out of his mind, and if he expected to get anything useful out of him, a certain amount of encouragement was needed. Forcing himself to smile as warmly as he could, he placed a caring hand on the messenger's shoulder and drew him away from the arrow slit. "Hold on, son. Ya found me, everything's gonna be okay now. Now calm down, take a deep breath, and tell me what's wrong."

After doing as he was directed, the fox swallowed hard, licked his lips to moisten them, and finally answered, though his voice was still tremulous and stuttering. "I-it's the Son of Heaven, sir. He…he's in grave danger! You must help him, or find someone who can!"

Vachir felt a deep chill sweep through him. "What do you mean? Show me!"

Rather than explain in words, the messenger led him from the tower room as hurriedly as he dared, down the stairs and out onto the battlements. Taking shelter behind the stone despite the great distance between them and the fighting, he gazed out across the plains, squinting against both the rising wind and the suddenly bright sunlight after the darkened interior of the tower. Before he could even begin to try and locate the Imperial standard, the fox pointed a slender hand in the right direction, while handing him a spyglass from inside his robes. Thanking him briefly, he held the instrument up to his eye and peered where indicated.

To the southeast, across the plain and the ruined expanse of the Outer City, where smoke rose in numerous plumes and flames burned unchecked in countless neighborhoods, he could see towering the distinctive round triple-tiered roof of the Temple of Heaven. Surrounding it a particularly hot segment of the battle was raging, masses of Mongols and Imperial soldiers hacking, slashing, and bashing away at each other with frenzied impunity, each side as fanatically devoted to winning whether to protect or to claim, to avenge or to defend. He could see various flags of the different tribes—Chakhar, Oirat, Khorchin, Abagha, but not the Ordos or Tümed; they must still be in rebellion against Dayan. He chuckled mirthlessly.

Then he spied it—the Imperial dragon alongside the peacock, symbol of the Ming. And as he tracked his gaze downward from the flapping cloth, he saw to his horror that an entire contingent of the royal bodyguards had been surrounded and trapped near the foundation of the temple. Rank after rank of the purple-clad fighters lay on the ground around them, soaked in blood and still with death…and at the center of their formation was the unmistakable striped, muscular figure of Emperor Chen. He was giving a good account of himself, naturally, light on his feet as he twisted, ducked, kicked and whirled about far faster and with more supple grace than it seemed a man of his size should, his pair of _beidao_ flickering, darting, and deflecting as only a Crane stylist could manage. But he was still surrounded with no way out, by far too many men. It would only be a matter of time before he succumbed.

"Shit!" Cursing a blue streak, Vachir lowered the spyglass and shoved it back into the fox's waiting hands. For a few agonizing moments he stared out across the battlefield toward the clashing armies, paralyzed by indecision. Then he whipped about, clenched both fists, and immediately charged back into the tower. As the messenger followed him, he raced down the steps, already shouting orders to him. "Tell the lieutenant to gather as much of the Third Company as he can muster and still leave the walls defended, then meet me at the gate. And find my hammer!"

It might not be as memorable or as powerful as the phoenix-etched one belonging to his ancestor Golden Rhino, but it would do for what he had in mind. And while the Third Company was no Anvil of Heaven (which had, unfortunately, been left to guard Chorh-Gom), it was full of brave, strong, battle-hardened warriors who would get him to his goal. Though if he ended up having to do it all himself, he _would_ save the Emperor, even if he had to do it bare-handed.

Soon enough he had met up with his men at the gatehouse and the fox had returned with his hammer in tow—which led to a moment of surreal comedy amidst all the worry and fear as he watched the poor messenger struggle to lift the great iron weapon before taking pity on him and hoisting it easily out of his grip. Then with a swift dismissal of the noncombatant, Vachir gave the order…the gates were raised and unbarred…and then with a roar of bloodthirsty fury and unwavering determination, he and his force poured out through the wall onto the battlefield.

It was, quite literally, a madhouse. Immediately he was assaulted by sound—the constant shouts and battle-cries of the warriors locked in struggle, the agonized screams and moans of the wounded and dying, the clash and clang of numerous weapons, and more distantly the sound of smashing wood and stone as the besieging Mongols tried to break and batter down other entry points into the city where the Emperor's soldiers valiantly defended them. He could smell smoke and ash, blood and sweat, offal and the putrescence of rotting flesh, all of it lingering over the land in a miasma of nauseating stench that nearly made him lose his last meal.

And everywhere he looked were faces—some snarling and shrieking in defiance, some overcome with fear and desperation, some twisted in an agony of pain. It all whirled around him…and yet he forced himself to tune it out, to ignore everything but what lay directly in front of him, keeping him from his Emperor.

Grimly he gestured, left and right, giving the agreed-upon orders, and detachments broke off from both sides behind him to charge at the attackers, driving them back across the plains or through the battered streets of the Outer City. Squaring his shoulders, the rhino barreled straight forward down the center, followed by the bulk of his men, and in moments they were surrounded…struggling, trampling, fighting for their lives.

From one side he spied a contingent of massively muscular horses surging toward him, smashing through a tumbled wall, manes tossing with a berserker rage in their eyes and wicked-looking halberds aimed to slash violently at any who dared cross their path. A bellowed command that, thanks to his powerful lungs, could even be heard on the battlefield, instantly loosed a volley of arrows from the crossbowmen he'd made sure to rally, swaths of the deadly missiles raining down through the hazy air to cut down one line of enemies after another, each slowing the rank that came behind as they were forced to shove through or trample over their dead. From another side, he saw a horde of armored wolves rushing toward him, howling (literally!) for blood, wielding their sabres with an efficiency and skill that belied their being simple foot soldiers—among the Mongols, all young men (and even some of the women) were trained to fight almost from as soon as they could walk.

But Vachir sent another detachment of his company racing toward them, swords raised and maces brandished, and suddenly a path was left open for him and the men still with him. "Forward!" he roared. "To the Son of Heaven!" And swinging his hammer in great, violent arcs before and around him, he went barreling right down the battered, pitted, body-strewn avenue that led straight through the clamoring armies toward the beleaguered temple.

A maelstrom of bodies swarmed around him, attempted to smother him and lay him low so as to slash and tear him to pieces—but with a mighty surge of his shoulders he heaved upward, hurling them back several feet to topple on top of each other, those beneath screaming and howling as they were crushed to the ground instead. A sword swung down toward his side but he twisted and dodged to avoid it, so that his armored attacker fell on his face with a clatter in the churned-up mud.

Wolven jaws lunged and snapped, trying to gain purchase to rip flesh and crush bone, but his armor blunted their fangs and then he bashed them aside with his hammer, howls of pain echoing in the fetid air. Equine hooves swung upward to kick with stunning force into his chest, sending him toppling backward with a choked gasp of agony, but his men were there to defend him, rushing into the gap to bear the horses back and cut them down where they stood.

On his feet again, Vachir let out a roar of fury and charged anew, his hammer become a whirlwind of unstoppable force. Gritting his teeth and snarling, he swung again, and again, and again—slamming into shields with enough force to buckle and even snap the metal, caving in faces and crushing skulls, moving with such swiftness and speed (belying both his bulk and the weight of his weapon) he was able to strike arrows right out of the air before they could hit their marks. Once or twice he even deflected them sideways so that they struck the archers' fellow Mongols instead.

Sweat soon soaked him beneath his armor and tunic, ran down his face in rivulets, leaked into his eyes so that they stung with the salt—but he did not relent. His chest heaved with the exertions, muscles aching, lungs working overtime—but he did not lose his breath. His arms began to feel like extensions of his hammer, hot lengths of iron attached to his shoulders and weighing him down—but he did not feel the fatigue, it belonged to someone else, another man, a lesser man who had not accepted bone-deep that loyalty, honor, and pride were all that mattered, justified anything. The blood that flowed, the flesh that tore and ripped, the disgusting sights that were par for the course when facing such wild hordes—that occurred whenever battle was joined, if he was completely honest with himself—horrified him, and yet he knew they were necessary. That he would spill as much, shred as much, if it would save his Emperor and bring an end to further fighting.

On and on the rhino fought, mowing down one battalion after another while his men did the same to the Mongols closing ranks behind him. In close quarters, with the fighting so chaotic, brutal, and constant, there wasn't time or space for the fancy footwork of kung fu, but he did at least manage to plant himself solidly in place with secure Dragon stances to keep from being overwhelmed and to get several kicks and roundhouses in.

But mostly he continued to wield his hammer with an iron grip, its head becoming increasingly soaked in blood as he brought down bulls and wolves, falcons and gaurs, armor-clad shapes which seemed to exist in endless amounts, charging him out of alleys and leaping upon him from collapsed buildings and grassy hillocks alike.

Finding a wicked, double-bitted axe lying by its now-lifeless former owner, he swung and whirled it with just as much skill and vigor, in perfect counterpoint to his hammer so that he slew just as many behind as before him, twisting and leaning, bashing and stabbing. A kneecap smashed to bring a Mongol down, a chin struck and head thrown back as the hordesman himself flew off his feet, already unconscious…an abdomen sliced deeply open, a head severed neatly from its neck, his axe blade burying itself in a groin as he swung it up from below…

Finally he was nearly there, his target in sight, the Lord of Ten Thousand Years and what was left of his entourage backed up right against the temple walls. The majority of the latter, his Imperial guardsmen and royal bodyguards, were feline—lions, panthers, leopards, and more—clad not only in their striking and easily recognizable trousers of finest violet but also with studded bracers, pauldrons, and breastplates on their upper halves, armed with scimitars, _dao_ sabers, and halberds of their own.

But although those remaining fought valiantly and ceaselessly, snarling and growling and roaring into the dusty, humid air, their weapons slaying one line of Mongols after another and their bodies acting as shields for their sovereign, their defense had nearly crumbled. One by one, the few still alive were falling, only to fail to rise once more, their ranks nearly gone, leaving the Emperor more and more exposed to the surging, slashing, flailing horde slavering to reach him.

As he watched in impotent fury, a lithe leonine with the energy and temper of youth leaped toward an incoming barbarian, only for the Mongol's sword to impale him nearly to the hilt in his abdomen, his fire-red mane tossing in the sunlight as he spewed blood before collapsing in a heap. Several yards away, a clouded leopard swung his halberd up and down, skillfully deflecting one chop, strike, and thrust of a blade after another with each end—only for another Mongol who'd managed to slip up behind him to bring his axe down in a flashing crescent, neatly decapitating him. He could see the guardsman's body fall into the blood it was already gushing out, its thick pelt of gray, silver, and white soaking through with ever darker shades of red and muddy brown…

With a wordless cry, the rhino charged forward once more, hammer and axe smashing and slashing in mirroring arcs—and while he could sense his men on either side and behind him, battering and crashing into the Mongols to keep them away and open a path, all he could see, all he could focus on, was his Emperor pinned against the temple wall, soon to fall and perish if he did not get there in time. A film of red overlay his vision, and he knew if he didn't reach his goal soon he would be lost to a berserker rage himself.

So…he channeled it, directed it all around him, at any opponent who stood in his way or even came within reach, striking them down where they stood or sending them flying back to topple their comrades along with them. The lines of Mongols were petering out now…he had slaughtered so many, his men had diverted or slain still more, he could see the temple wall nearing…

Suddenly another Mongol came at him from the side, and only by sheer instinct did he twist and dodge in time to keep the man's axe blade from burying itself in his side, where surely even his armor could not have stopped it thanks to gaps and chinks where it laced together. He only had another startled moment to realize the enemy facing him was also a rhino before his muscles reacted without thought—first his hammer swinging to smash its head into the man's stomach, then his axe coming about at a horizontal to slash deeply across and into his neck. Gurgling out a fountain of blood, he collapsed at Vachir's feet, twitching for several moments before expiring.

The captain froze, staring down in horror, while the battle raged around him, his men keeping the rampaging Mongols away while he stayed stuck in a dangerous paralysis. It wasn't having killed the fellow, of course, he'd killed many in this charge alone as well as his numerous battles before now. Nor was it the manner of his death; though it sickened him on some level to admit it, he'd inured himself to the sight of blood, body parts, and other less-than-savory results of death throes so that they no longer bothered him anymore.

What had him frozen was the fact the fellow was a rhino—not just any rhino, but one of the Uriankhai like himself who had instead chosen to throw his lot in with the Khan—and he was young, either still in his teens or just out of them. Like Vachir himself.

For what seemed an eternity he stared down, stricken…in death the Mongol looked so peaceful despite his rather gory throat wound, the flecks of foam he'd spat now gone, his features slack and calm rather than twisted by a rictus of hate and battle-fury. Their ages were so close, their tribe was the same—it was as if he were looking at a mirror of himself. At what he could have been if his life choices had been made differently.

What had his name been? Where had he come from? Despite everything, was he even truly an enemy? Was he really evil at heart…or was Vachir himself the evil one? Considering how this war had begun, and what could have been between Mongol and Han if matters had not degenerated as they had, he could not be sure. This boy's sense of duty and loyalty had likely been no less than his own. Had he come here out of vengeance and malice, to right a wrong and claim the spoils of a 'corrupt' empire…or had he been tricked and beguiled, lied to and threatened? Would he rather not have stayed at home in peace?

Instead he lay here, dead, possibly to be forgotten and unmourned…killed by an enemy that wore his own face. An enemy who could just as easily have been him. An enemy who, if he wasn't careful, would soon be lying lifeless on the ground beside him.

Wrenching his gaze away, Vachir only needed one hurried look to see he actually was relatively safe, his men having killed or scattered the sea of Mongols until this section of the battlefield was clear, save for the countless mounds of the dead, discarded weapons, piles of rubble, and countless pools of blood. He took a deep breath…and then another look, ahead and to the side, showed him Chen in terrible danger—although the tiger's lightweight armor and lack of any rich robes or cloaks let him remain swift and sure on his feet, and his _beidao _whirled and flashed through the air like the wings of his kung fu style's namesake, even reflecting the light the same way a crane's pinfeathers would, his massive figure was visibly tiring, he had lost one of his weapons and now fought with one blade alone…and there was blood matting and drenching his fur in numerous places. Far too much blood. He was also nearly alone now, only five or so Imperial guards left to defend him.

Despair washed over the rhino, and with another cry he barreled toward the Son of Heaven—only to catch a glimpse of something coming at him from the side. He started to turn his head…and then something struck him, hard, and an explosion of agony burst through him as he felt something crack and smash.

Stumbling backward, Vachir shook himself, his head ringing, his vision blurry and doubled as he tried to recover from that mighty blow. Even as he did so, he instinctively twisted aside and brought his weapons to bear, his hammer again smashing into his attacker's stomach to make him double over, followed by his axe tearing the wolf's throat open so he collapsed on the ground, gagging and wheezing as his life's blood left him. Only then did the rhino allow himself to tentatively reach up to feel at his face, to find out just where that attack had landed, what damage it had done. When he did, and his hand failed to encounter what it should, fingers instead only feeling the rough edges of protruding keratin, he felt himself go cold.

The Mongolian's mace had struck him right in the face…and completely smashed through his horn, severing it completely.

His breath came wildly and rapidly as panic began to set in. No. How could he have let himself be distracted like that? Now it was too late… While losing a horn was not quite a mark of dishonor and weakness among rhinos, it was still frowned upon and definitely considered a sign of failure—for one to be lost in battle suggested either a lack of combat skill and defense, or a recklessness and lack of self-control not at all acceptable. The pain was nothing compared to the symbolic mark left upon him. He had been a fool, and now all the hard work he'd gone through to rise in the Imperial ranks could well be undone!

Even as he gently cupped his hand over the shattered base of his horn, however, Vachir couldn't block the image from his watering eyes—the emperor still waited ahead of him, still desperately and furiously defending his own life while the final members of his bodyguard fought courageously before him. And worse than this was just who was approaching…slow, inexorable, adamantine in purpose and with blood and will of iron and stone as he stalked across the bloody battlefield. The looming, armored figure…hulking, massive with muscle but as he knew from experience possessing a surprising amount of agility and dexterity…helmeted canine face lifted to sneer contemptuously at Chen while his double-bladed scimitar was held at the ready for a swift and deadly attack.

The Khan had come at last to take out his hated foe, and all of China depended on what Vachir did next. His own loss meant nothing. He had to make his move.

His body was moving before he had even told it to. The pain, the shock, and the bitter, self-recriminating disappointment were all shoved into the background, ignored, as he rushed forward across the last few yards of broken stone and ground—and his timing, for once, was impeccable. For just as the wolverine had succeeded in slashing deeply across the belly of the panther defending the emperor so that he collapsed with his innards spilling out on the earth, just as the Mongol had then lifted the bloody scimitar blade to aim it at the neck of the tiger who faced him with pride, dignity, and determination…

Vachir pushed off with one foot, leaped, and landed right in front of his ruler, his hammer held high to catch the incoming blow. Metal rang on metal and wood, his whole body shook—but the weapon did not even jostle in his grip…and then all fell into a stunned, ugly silence.

Behind him he could hear clothing rustle and breath rasping in a throat as Chen took a step forward, but without even looking the rhino thrust one hand behind him to ward the tiger away. He only had eyes for his combatant, his enemy…he who might have been his leader instead, if matters had gone differently. It would be easier, of course, if the fellow were openly and obviously evil, if he were a dumb savage or unprincipled destroyer, but this was not so—the man before him displayed cunning and cleverness, intelligence and foresight in his deep-set, bright eyes; his expression was one of calculation, caution, and bravery; and his stance suggested one with mastery of the warrior's way of life, well aware of differing strategies and styles of warfare.

This was a man who not only knew what he was doing, and could switch quickly and readily from one approach to another to achieve victory, but one who understood and analyzed his opponents with great skill. He was a man to be wary of and one to regret facing—as much because of how good an ally he might have made as because of the uncertainty of winning against him. If not for the wolverine's temper and pride…

Very softly, Dayan spoke, his words clear in the lull of battle as the wind fell away to nothing and the clash of weapons became distant with the fronts of the armies moving elsewhere. "So, it is you after all who will fight me. The deserter, the traitor."

Vachir gritted his teeth, his callused hands gripping the hafts of his hammer and axe as he struggled to maintain his own temper. He knew such would be the first words from the Mongolian's mouth; it was what he had called the rhino when they last met in Tavan Bogd, his parting words in fact. No matter how long his family and tribe had been separated and away from the steppes, had been loyal to the Hans, the Khan would only see him as treacherous and worthy only of ridicule. Still, he had to try to defend himself. "You know that ain't true. My people and yours went their separate ways a long time ago. Can't betray someone ya ain't followed for generations."

"Wrong. Your ancestors turned their backs on mine, and that carries down to us today." The wolverine sneered openly. "Even if it didn't, you persist in following that murderous, power-hungry Han bastard, and that marks you traitor in my eyes!"

Unsurprisingly, a growl came from behind the rhino, and he felt as well as heard Chen bristle. "That is a lie! I have never sought power and never will, and you know very well it was one of your own tribes who committed that murder, not me and mine! If you would simply listen—"

The captain cut him off, never taking his eyes off the Khan as he spoke. "Let me handle this, your Majesty." Switching back to Mongolian, which the tiger had also spoken in so as to be certain he'd be understood (though Vachir was afraid Dayan would simply view the Son of Heaven daring to speak his tongue as sacrilege and insult), he said, "He's right, though. It wasn't the Han who murdered your envoy. It was a traitor in _our_ ranks, who's long ago been dealt with, and a group among your people who wanted us to go to war. If you let yourself consider it for even a moment, you'd know we're telling the truth. But you're just too stubborn and pig-headed to admit it." He knew he should be more diplomatic, but he was tired of dancing around what everyone really knew, and bluntness was not only his way, it was Dayan's.

Snarling softly, the Khan glared at him with smoldering heat. "There's no truth, or honor, to be found in you. You've been after our lands for centuries, and you won't rest till you have them all! Even when we were allies you betrayed us—"

"That was the Jin!" Vachir retorted.

"—and as soon as they were defeated, you invaded and tried to take our cities back—"

"_One_ city, and it was the stolen capital!"

"—it will never end until one of us is conquered and ground to dust, until there is only one empire. And I know whom the gods say it should be!" Dayan bellowed his last words, chest thrust out, fur puffed to make him look twice as large and menacing, foam beginning to drip and froth from his fangs.

Vachir stared at him in horror. The man was mad, or close to. There could be no resolution, not when there was so much bad blood, so many recriminations and atrocities exchanged on both sides until the dealings between Mongol and Han became a tangled mess of hate, distrust, and bloodshed. Squeezing the hafts of his weapons again, he rose to his full height and bore his flinty gaze into that of his enemy.

"Screw the gods. This is about greed, pure and simple. It's about you and me. If the gods are involved at all, I bet they want us to settle something this petty and stupid by ourselves. I'm not gonna let you turn this into a schoolyard tussle. Nobody's hands were clean, but what matters is what we do now. We've got a chance to set things right, put an end to all this fighting and make peace. So it's time you either show the wisdom you're supposed to have by standing down…or I'm gonna put a stop to you."

The wolverine's nostrils flared, his chin lifting so that the rays of the sun angling down from the heavens fell across his brow, setting alight the flaming red hair spilling from beneath his helmet that all the line of Genghis had always possessed. Something flickered in his eyes—despair? Confusion? Hate?—and Vachir realized something with a deep, sinking feeling in his heart.

Even if Dayan understood his words, knew that he had gone too far and that this war needed to end regardless of who was in the right, even if he could admit that Chen might be telling the truth…it was far too late now. There was too much pride invested now, he could not be seen to capitulate and surrender no matter if it were the wisest course—if he did, he would lose face among his people, he would be pulled down and replaced by an even more bloodthirsty Khan who would renew the war and cause even more death in the name of age-old feuds.

As all of this flickered across Dayan's face, as moments passed during which hope died, what might have been faded into nothing, and regret became grim resolve and unwavering determination, Vachir met his eyes and silently cursed to himself that it should come to this. If he could he'd kill them for this, all those who had brought them to this place and time—Meng Tao, the Khalkha, Genghis, traitors on both sides whose lust for power and wealth had made them cutthroat tyrants. But they were beyond his reach, it was only him now, here to stand between Chen and Dayan, to finally bring an end to it all…for as long as peace could last, anyway.

Dayan growled again, and though there was still some hint of sorrow and even regret in his eyes, when he replied it was with disbelief and derision. "You? All by yourself? With your men decimated or having abandoned you, when you are not as great a warmaster as I, when you have already proven yourself unworthy by your loss?" And he nodded toward the rhino's broken horn.

He _knew_ it would come to that. Shaking his head slowly, Vachir forced himself to ignore the emptiness he gazed through, the pain that still throbbed in his face. "I don't care what you think," he growled. "I ain't unworthy, I _can _put a stop to ya, and I will. Even if I have to die to do it." And he brandished his axe, the crescent blade gleaming in the light as he aimed its edge at the wolverine's scowling face, his hammer held back close in his other hand to act as a shield.

Gradually the Khan's expression changed, his confidence and willpower faltered, and he even took a slight step backwards. He could see in Vachir's countenance just how truly and unwaveringly he meant his words, just what he would be facing if he intended to cut down the Son of Heaven. There was a touch of fear there…and even respect.

Nodding, Dayan lifted his scimitar once more. "So be it, then. If you wish to throw your life away—"

"It won't be mine that's lost, if ya don't wise up," Vachir interrupted him.

With a snarl that was half-annoyed, half-challenging, the wolverine lunged forward, weapon swinging.

Instantly the rhino brought his hammer up so that Dayan's scimitar blade came clashing down upon the solid iron head with a resonant clang. Before the Mongolian could react, he was twisting his other arm around and bringing his axe upward, the blade slashing with furious intent right at the canid face looming above him, whizzing through the air with audible speed so that the wolverine had to leap backward with a rancid oath to keep from having his muzzle sliced in two.

With the space between them created by that enforced retreat, Vachir rotated again, bringing his hammer about to slam its head into his enemy's abdomen, but the Khan was faster than his bulk would imply, twisting at the last moment so as to only take a glancing blow along his side. Although wheezing slightly from the impact, he brought his double-bladed weapon about again, and then they were swinging, slashing, and assaulting each other with impunity.

Somehow, oddly enough, his lack of a horn seemed to be an asset instead of a liability. Although he'd never considered his field of vision blocked by it, suddenly he found himself noticing peripheral movements more than before, catching sight of small shifts of the eyes or twitches of expression that signified a decision made, a combat move being put into action. And though the loss of its weight was negligible, he somehow found himself moving quicker and more agilely, ducking blows that once might have struck him square on, twisting and avoiding the Khan as he came at him again and again until the wolverine was clearly frustrated and enraged at his inability to land a hit. Vachir grinned to himself.

Back and forth they battled across the rutted ground, neither one of them managing to injure each other, both of them far too skilled and wily to be caught unawares like that, so that instead they continually brought their weapons together with sonorous clashes and resounding smacks.

Again and again Vachir brought his hammer or axe up in time to prevent the wolverine from slashing to eviscerate his belly, slam into his groin, or split his skull, and again and again Dayan brought his blade about to block an incoming blow, stopping the hammer head inches from his muzzle, smacking away his axe before it could bury itself in the Mongol's heaving chest. If he weren't becoming so frustrated with his inability to draw blood and take a decisive lead, and if the life of his emperor didn't depend on him winning, he might actually enjoy this combat as an exhibition of skill.

Fast and furiously they fought now, neither of them giving the other a chance to catch his breath or recover. The rhino leaped toward his opponent with a growl and a rapid swing of his axe, the blade slicing horizontally at Dayan's thighs—but despite his bulk and armor, the wolverine pulled off an amazing leap from a standing position, springing upward to allow the blade to whiz by beneath him where he had just been only moments before. Before he had even landed, the Mongol was returning a reverse swing of his scimitar, and Vachir had to similarly react with split-second timing to avoid it, pulling off a backflip that made his spine protest, it was so sudden and sharp.

The flip threw him a good distance back but also put him almost pressed to the crumbled wall of a ruined building, severely limiting his options and movements. Even as he was looking desperately about for an avenue of escape, Dayan came rushing at him again, and he had to hurriedly throw up his hammer and axe in an X-formation to block first one end of the double-bladed weapon, then the other.

The rush, serendipitously enough, succeeded in helping him, for the force of the wolverine's blow threw him backwards again, right into the wall—and it was in such terrible shape it broke apart, his body forming another hole in the stone blocks that let him fly free of the bottleneck. Rolling to one knee and then back upright again, he waited for the Khan to pursue him…and when he did, he swept his hammer up to catch the head behind the canid's knee, flipping him backwards in turn and sending him sprawling. But of course he was on his feet again in seconds as well, baring his fangs in a rictus of hate and foam, and then they were once again slashing and slicing wildly, powerfully, yet with calculated angles and approaches to bring each other down.

After that the blows came even faster still, so rapidly their blades became blurs of gray metal and flashing light, interrupted only by loud scrapes and clashes accompanied by sparks whenever the edges struck together just right. As Dayan slowly but surely backed him away from the crumbling wall and across the rubble-strewn ground, he tilted and twisted his scimitar up and down, bringing first one blade and then the other to bear, twisting the weapon to slide, slash, and grind the edge along his axe blade again and again. Was he trying to dull the edge?

No, Vachir realized, a split second too late—in moments the Khan had twisted his scimitar just right, and abruptly their weapons were locked together! The rhino struggled to break free, but the blade had slid down into the gap where his axe hooked back toward the handle. He wrenched again, snarling, but with lightning speed the wolverine suddenly inverted his scimitar to drive it down to embed itself in the dirt, and it pulled the rhino's weapon with it. He just managed to keep hold of the axe, but its blade was still pinned to the ground.

How Dayan did it, he didn't know, but even as one end kept his axe trapped, the other end swung toward him, slashing at his chest. Vachir was forced to bend backward to dodge, the handle just passing scant centimeters above his breastplate—and the blade his exposed neck. Lurching back again, he gritted his teeth and forced himself to abandon the axe, for the moment, instead leaping up upon another broken wall they'd approached. This time he had the advantage, and not just of height, for while the Khan was still working his scimitar out of the ground, the rhino took a deep breath, centered himself, and leaped up from his perch, delivering the most powerful forward kick he could manage.

His foot struck true, and with a choking cough Dayan flew backwards to slam into the same wall Vachir had fallen through a few minutes before. He, too, managed to keep hold of his weapon, but that only pulled it out of the ground, letting the rhino duck down and scoop up his axe again. Grinning a bit fiendishly to himself, the captain leaped in pursuit, but just as he was bringing his axe blade down toward the wolverine's head, the Mongolian sprang upright and twisted sinuously. Suddenly his narrower profile was turned to Vachir instead of his broad torso, and the slender but sturdy length of the scimitar extended upward alongside his head to block the incoming blow.

Furious, the rhino twisted and swung again and again, but as if they were choreographing some damned imperial ballet instead of a combat to the death, Dayan kept shifting and blocking. Coming body-to-body with him, Vachir gritted his teeth and drew on every well of stamina he possessed, alternately slashing with his axe and swinging, even twirling his hammer, sometimes coming side-to-side with his enemy so as to bring his weapons down in crescents and arcs, sometimes back-to-back so as to stab the hook or slam the hammerhead over his shoulders.

The Khan not only blocked or evaded every strike, he returned his own in kind, first one end and then the other of the scimitar slashing downward or stabbing upward. The rhino, too, managed to escape any fatal blows, but his tunic was soon torn in several places, his armor scratched and dented, and shallow wounds trickled blood here and there down his leathery hide. And he was beginning to tire.

At last, however, he saw an opening—for even as he continued to swing, duck, slash, and parry, Vachir noticed that in his madness and desperation to bring his hated foe down, the brash and reckless wolverine was using the same attack pattern again and again: a horizontal crescent slash to try and slice him off at the knees, becoming a double-handed back swing that brought the scimitar up, around, and down to aim at his shoulder, then another crescent directed at his chest, following by an inversion to thrust the opposite blade straight at his heart. Panting against the stitch in his side and the agony of a deep wound he now bore along his ribs, the rhino acted as if he hadn't noticed his opponent's mistake, continuing to respond just as predictably, blocking and battling as if just as frantic to keep from losing and so ragged he was about to collapse in weary defeat—the latter not being too far from the truth.

Then, without warning he struck—and instead of using his usual tactic of swinging his axe to block the scimitar blade coming at his chest, he fell down to one knee so that it missed him completely, then brought up his hammer instead. He put all the force of his phenomenal shoulders and arms behind the blow, all his anger, all his determination, all his strength, and sent it slamming into the Mongol's weapon handle instead.

What resulted from this was even more spectacular and decisive than he could have hoped for—he'd intended to jostle the weapon from his hands, perhaps even make him drop it, and certainly knock him off balance. But he'd struck even harder than he'd realized, his enemy was leaning over him at just the right angle, and he must have hit the perfect spot in the wooden shaft. Because when the head of his hammer struck, the wood shattered completely, almost literally disintegrating so that Vachir's weapon continued on unimpeded with barely a loss in momentum.

Not only did the two halves of the now nearly-useless weapon go flying from Dayan's hands, but the hammer struck him right in the chest...and though there wasn't the telltale sound of bone crunching, the Khan did let out a coughing, agonized roar of pain and a spray of blood as he flew across the battlefield, landing sprawled on the broken road a good fifteen feet away. That time he did hear something break, and though the wolverine still growled in hateful fury and struggled to get up, he did not rise again.

Vachir gasped hugely, and though his wounds still plagued him he suddenly found a well of strength and adrenaline that let him get to his feet. He had done it; he had defeated the Great Khan. And if he could get enough of his men over here to take the Mongol into custody, he could be put on trial for his crimes, made an example to any who would dare invade and cruelly despoil a peaceful empire.

Or perhaps held for ransom, with the further condition of his release being exile for him and his people; if the sum was high enough, the horde would not be able to pay and the Khan would be held indefinitely, perhaps for the rest of his life. Of course, if he did get released, there was nothing to stop him from licking his wounds and returning another day with a new army... Either way, though, for now the war would be over.

Except...as he began striding toward the fallen war leader, hammer and axe both held at the ready for any treacherous moves, making quite sure he was between the wolverine and his fallen weapons, they were suddenly no longer alone. From a side passage between crumbling walls that had once been an alley, a contingent of Mongols—wolves from the steppes—appeared, lunging out from the shadows where they'd apparently been watching, waiting to step in and intervene. Before he could do more than grit his teeth in frustration, the tribesmen were rushing to Dayan's side, interposing themselves between him and his attacker while helping him carefully but quickly to his feet.

For a long moment, as the wolverine limped away between his men (likely thanks to a broken joint), he looked back at Vachir. His helmet had come loose and been sent hurtling away when he was thrown, allowing that flame-red hair to spill down and dance wildly around his shoulders, but it was the look of incredibly powerful mixed emotions on his face that drew the rhino's attention—hatred, maddened fury, disbelief, and even a disgruntled, very grudging bit of respectful acknowledgement of his stunning and sudden victory. Then he was gone, the wolves closing ranks around and behind him to block the view as he was borne away...leaving behind a good dozen or so men, glaring and growling as they fingered their weapons, ready to avenge their fallen chieftain.

Just as he was girding himself for another battle he wasn't sure he was ready for or could win, he felt a heavy, strong, reassuring paw on his shoulder and dared to look. It was the Emperor of course, having followed the course of combat to be on hand in case he was needed. Although still sweaty, bloody, and still a bit winded, he otherwise seemed recovered and prepared to fight anew, and he had also reclaimed his lost saber.

"Captain Vachir...do not trouble yourself. Let him go—if he is intelligent, he will learn from this ignominious defeat and plague us no more; if not, we will be ready for him another day, and that day he will be meeting the Lords of Death for judgment. Either way...you have acquitted yourself admirably. Whatever else may be said about you, you are a gifted warrior and a brave one. I owe you my life...and would wish no other at my side."

Such high praise was something he was unaccustomed to, despite the prestigious awarding of command of the Anvil of Heaven—he simply saw what he did as duty, the right and moral and legal thing to do, nothing he should be rewarded for when it was what every person in the empire with the skill and wherewithal should be doing. But he wasn't about to deny his ruler's words either...especially not when they in turn denied the Khan's sneering accusations of cowardice, weakness, and failure. In spite of himself he puffed out his chest and managed a craggy, cocky grin.

Nodding toward the approaching Mongols, who were even now fanning out to surround them, the rhino drawled casually, "Well if that's how ya feel, then there's no time like the present, is there? You take the ones on the left, I take the ones on the right?"

The tiger chuckled appreciatively, but with a certain darker tone that reminded him, as if he needed it, that this was an apex predator. "You took the words right out of my mouth." Turning around smoothly, he pressed his back up against Vachir's, brandishing his _beidao_ crossed before him to ward away incoming attacks. "In which case, I only have one more thing to add."

"And what's that, Your Majesty?"

"Please call me Chen," the striped cat muttered.

"Will you settle for Zhu You Chen?" It was an honor to be allowed to call the Lord of Ten Thousand Years by his given name, but even aside from the deference and respect he owed the Emperor as a matter of principle, there was no way he'd be that informal with the man who, with such honesty and sincerity, had just validated everything he fought for and believed in.

Chen smirked and let out a put-upon sigh, but shrugged with equanimity. "Very well, my friend...anyway, I just wanted to say...if we don't make it out of this, we'll at least go down fighting." His bright blue eyes flashed briefly. "_But_, as soon as you're back for your next life..."

Vachir threw back his head and laughed gutturally, startling the approaching wolves into stopping stock still, watching them warily. "Hell, why'd you even have to ask? If you know me at all by now, you know damn well I'm gonna re-enlist!"

The Son of Heaven laughed along with him—and while their opponents were still staring at the seeming madmen in their midst, both men brought their weapons to bear and swung into action as if they'd rehearsed it, slashing and smashing and battering with breathtaking fury and equally consummate skill. _This may be a good day to die...but if I've got anything to say about it, that **ain't** gonna be what happens!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To begin with, while Meng Tao was lifted out of the KFP TV series, and the reference to Golden Rhino and his hammer (as well as Vachir's line about re-enlisting, this time about himself) is from Ilien's "Book of Changes", Dayan Khan is another real historical figure, though I again took some liberties with his portrayal—in actual history his reason for attacking the Han was truly a case of betrayal on the part of the emperor slaying his envoy, but since I needed an antagonist for this story while also keeping Chen a more noble leader, I included Meng Tao so as to justify these events, while not holding any sort of animus toward the Mongols (in all honesty, there were enlightened and tyrannical leaders on both sides throughout the centuries, so an idealized Ancient China like KFP's setting would always have a certain historical inaccuracy). 
> 
> Choosing Dayan Khan as the Mongol leader was also one of the reasons I ultimately settled on the Ming for the time period of my stories, another being so that nine hundred years prior would give me an appropriate emperor to use as the one Chao wanted to bring down, and the appropriate emperor to base Chen off of. Although in actuality, while I almost literally took his name and much of his accomplishments from the Hongzhi Emperor, Zhu Youcheng, I actually combined him a bit with that Emperor's son (in terms of his sexual openness and harem size, but without any of his decadence or incompetence) as well as his father and grandfather, who spent quite a bit of time fighting with the Mongols. This also allowed me to insert an Emperor who ruled for over fifty years instead of the three or four shorter-reigned Emperors from history.
> 
> But overall the Hongzhi Emperor is his main antecedent: "His reign as emperor of China is called the Hongzhi Silver Age. His era name means 'great government.' Hongzhi had been a brilliant child early on and he received the best education offered at that time. Hongzhi was immersed in Confucian schooling and he excelled in his studies. Ascending the throne in 1487, he modeled his administration after Confucian ideology and he became a hardworking and diligent emperor. He closely supervised all affairs of state, lowered taxes, reduced government spending, and made wise decisions when appointing ministers to government posts. In addition, Emperor Hongzhi also encouraged his ministers to be up front about all issues, even acknowledging criticisms directed towards the Emperor himself. This created a more transparent government and introduced fresh energy into the Ming dynasty." You can guess that the reason he diverged from history is because of Oogway's influence, and that he raised his son better in this timeline, thus making the next emperor's reign also a peaceful, prosperous, and honest one.
> 
> As an amusing point of historical accuracy, there really wasn't an Outer Wall to Beijing at the time I set this story, so Vachir's thought rather suggests he really is the reason one got built. And of course the bit with Vachir and the young Mongol he killed is an echo of Samwise and the Haradrim in _Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers_ (Faramir, in the Peter Jackson film).
> 
> Vachir, naturally, was partly inspired by how Ilien treated him in her story, but also because I came to like him myself through writing ADL...so I wanted to show what he was like when he was a genuinely heroic warrior, and the story I hinted at regarding him and Chen was the perfect vehicle. I also am pleased to give an explanation for how he lost his horn, something I don't think any other KFP writer has done, at least none I've read. :P


	2. The Tale of Qiao Yong and the Tale of Bao

It was a good thing, Qiao Yong reflected as he counterbalanced himself with his thick spotted tail so as to bend backwards in a supple motion, that this was just a sparring session to stay fit and trained. Because if it were serious, he just might be in danger of losing. And not only did he not want to die today, but if it were to this particular opponent, he'd never hear the end of it.

The other snow leopard, though of such a slender and svelte physique and with beige fur rather than gray that many might confuse him for the same mountain cat species as his wife, lunged at him with a laugh, his prized scimitar passing just over the bigger cat's bulky pectorals before whizzing up and away, artfully flipped and twirled about in his paw—a cavalier mannerism that belied just how skilled he was with the blade. "Buddy, are you even _trying_? Seriously, I could have one paw tied behind my back and I'd still be able to run circles around ya." Green eyes twinkled merrily, with a definite naughty mischief. "Of course, that's nothing on what Xu Mei and I get up to when I'm on leave. You should see the knots and intricate harnesses she has me—"

"Argh! _Must _you?" Yong growled in deep disgust, and only because he was in mid-battle, bearing his own scimitar, did he not immediately clap his paws over his ears to block out the extremely improper words and the disturbing images they conjured up. In retaliation he swung that blade toward his training partner, but Wu Xuan merely danced aside as if the big snow leopard were moving through congealing mud, knocking his sword away with a ribald laugh.

He _always_ did this, no matter how often his friend importuned him to leave off the perverted commentary, in fact precisely because he did...and yet he knew with a sigh that he would never have him any other way. And that he could never ask for a truer friend.

They'd been together...what, three years now, four? Training together, serving together first in the city guard, then that of the palace, and finally the Emperor's personal bodyguard which protected him when traveling, on the field of battle...and when in residence in the Imperial City. But it wasn't just the long, grueling hours of honing their bodies and fighting skills into weapons as deadly and versatile as the ones they carried and wielded, the instructors who barked orders and put them through rigorous, harsh conditions, or the politics and corruption in the city that were often as difficult to fight as any invading army. What drew them together was what they had in common despite their differences—most notably the fact both of them were from Qinghai.

Ironically, Yong's family had originally come from the mountains which spread south into Tibet, only to later move down into the northern plains to become farmers, while Wu Xuan's had done the reverse and were now nobility in Kunlun Shan. But this only made it easier for them to understand and appreciate each other more, to gain insight into each other's backgrounds and ways of looking at the world. At the same time, the simple fact they had been neighbors without knowing it, and both hailed from the hinterlands of the empire, gave them a link which transcended upper class and commoner. Both were familiar with the incursions of Huns and Mongols; both were aware of the influx of trade, riches, and art along the Silk Road that also brought new manners of thinking, new developments in industry and culture.

It allowed them to be united in their views more than most would believe—in their desire to protect their emperor and people, their way of life, to defend China and virtue in equal measure, even as they understood the need to preserve contact with outsiders and foreigners, that peace enabled growth and learning, civilization and prosperity, all things which would combat the barbarian hordes just as much as kung fu and warfare did. It was why they had both joined the prestigious Imperial bodyguards. And it was why Yong could stand Wu Xuan most of the time—well, that and the fact that for all his incessant inappropriate language, the smaller snow leopard was actually incredibly funny and entertaining.

Case in point: as Yong evaded his blade, rose back to an upright posture, and twisted about to direct his bulk away from Xuan's incoming weapon, the beige-furred warrior laughed again and whipped about even more lithely, his feet barely seeming to touch the paving stones of the training courtyard as he brought his scimitar up to strike against Yong's with loud, determined regularity. "Ha ha! Beautifully rich gardens, elegant statuary, shrines behind every waterfall and fruit tree—can't think of a better place for hand-to-hand combat." He winked and whirled about again, the edge of his blade just missing Yong's side and the lacings of his tunic. "And if you keep staying that light on your feet, buddy, I may just have to recommend ya to the Yangko Dancers."

"You're not going to throw me off like that, you know," the bigger snow leopard purred darkly. "There's a long tradition behind that dancing, and a great honor in being part of it."

"Then I guess ya won't mind having lots of beautiful, bright ribbons wrapped around ya, huh?" In spite of himself, Yong stumbled, and Xuan laughed throatily as he leaped in to take advantage, his blade once again barely stopped in time by Yong's own.

Several more rapid bouts went by in which they exchanged clanging blows and glancing strikes in equal measure—and anyone other than Yong, who was quite familiar with it to his chagrin, would have been startled at the sheer power behind Xuan's sword, matching or even slightly surpassing his own. At the same time the smaller cat remained quick on his feet (not that Yong would use that as an excuse to crack dancing jokes, unlike some he had better standards of propriety), his equally thick tail balancing him perfectly so as to allow for otherwise impossible side- and backbends, wildly rapid inversions and turnabouts, and powerful leaps. Soon, despite the cool spring day and this just being a training session, Yong's chest was damp with sweat beneath his tunic.

The cocky and extremely clever snow leopard twisted yet again and began entering a series of twirling spins, one rotation flowing right into the next, that brought his blade against Yong's in rapid succession—except when it didn't, instead aiming at his side, his abdomen, his chest and shoulders, so that Yong had to hurriedly shift his weapon to block even as he also backpedaled. Faster and faster Xuan moved, and the bigger leopard had to become ever more desperate to hold him off. It was at that moment, of course, that his friend began playing with him again—not only taking time to idly toss his scimitar in the air, only to catch it instantly when Yong lunged to take advantage of the opening, but taunting him once more.

"Clumsy," he noted wryly. "Good thing the Emperor depends on you for bashing through all obstacles and bringing down massive warriors—you'll never be fast enough to take out small, nimble, skillful assassins." He stopped another slash aimed for his chest with almost casual care. "Unless you work up some unexpected tricks to outsmart them. I can help ya with that." A wink, and then he spun away again, leaving Yong lurching through the empty space where he'd just been standing.

"Have to work on that footwork of yours, though. You've got your work cut out for ya there, with how huge those things are." Xuan came in with several fast strikes from unusual angles, his feet changing stances with incredible speed, surely meant as an illustration of his point. "Of course, having been on the road together, sharing barracks _and _the bathhouse, I know the old adage about the size of a guy's feet is true in your case." Yong's eyes widened at Xuan's boldness, and he stumbled briefly, falling out of the tempo of their fight.

"So you've got that one going for ya. Must be why you've got so many kids. Jian's a lucky gal." He paused, dodging a fast slash from Yong with a backflip so as to land in a perfect Crane stance. Then he grinned knowingly, artfully daring to wiggle the toes of the equally oversized paw lifted before him. "But then, so's Xu Mei."

He couldn't help himself; the combination of the crack about his lumberingly slow speed and the extremely scandalous references to the size of male anatomy (even if they were absolutely true) made Yong let out a strangled snarl as he leaped again. And of course, Xuan fully expected it, not only able to lower his foot and smoothly leap away again but also whirl to bring the flat of his blade down with stinging force on the back of Yong's paw. His fingers went numb, dropping his scimitar, he lost his balance—and as he quickly whipped about and elevated his tail to stay upright, he found himself standing bent over and poised before the tip of the smaller cat's sword, which was aimed right at his heart.

For several long moments they stayed frozen staring at each other, chests heaving, muscles twitching and clenching, breath rasping—at least, Yong's was; Xuan was either unwinded or as usual was carefully concealing it with slow, practiced breathing, a skill he said he'd learned from a Tibetan monk up in Kunlun Shan. Then, slowly, the spotted feline lowered his sword, sheathed it back in his cloth belt...and chuckled, softly at first but with increasing amusement. And in spite of himself, despite the flare of temper he found himself having to swiftly quash, Yong was soon joining him, shaking his heavy head in disbelief. "My word, Xuan. You've still got it."

Planting his paws on his hips, the beige cat pursed his lips. "'My word'? You can do better than that, buddy. Can't you, for once in your life, let a coarse word or—let's get really wild here—even a curse pass your unsullied lips?"

Crossing his arms over his chest, Yong regarded him coolly. "No."

Again they stared at each other, and again they laughed. This time Xuan relaxed completely, bending down on one knee and scooping up the fallen sword, handing it back to Yong with a flourish. "Well I'll say one thing for ya, you're consistent. One of your best traits as a fighter, too, as long as you don't let it make you too predictable. You do know I was kidding about most of that, right?"

"Of course." Fetching a towel from the nearby weapons rack, he started patting himself down of perspiration. "Except the one about my feet."

"Hey, gotta keep ya honest." Slapping his shoulder in a comradely gesture, Xuan waited until he turned to look at him, his green eyes now earnest and admiring instead of mocking or arrogant. "I mean it, though. Just 'cause I lucked out on the slender genes doesn't mean you're not still an amazing fighter. Don't make me remind you how many times you've saved my life now."

Yong put his sword away—unlike Xuan's, it had just been a practice blade, his actual sword being kept in his room—and smiled at him warmly, placing his larger paw over his friend's and squeezing it briefly. "Just as you've saved mine. I'm not counting, though I bet you are; have to make everything a competition, don't you?"

"No," the other leopard replied instantly, a little too defensively. A beat, then, "Er...not _every_thing. Only some things. Most...things?" He rubbed uncomfortably at the back of his neck, his smile a little too tooth-filled, a little too cheesy.

"Hey, I have to keep you honest." He couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice and didn't bother trying, especially when he caught the brief flattening of Xuan's ears and the glum look that turned into one of acceptance and reluctant pride at being so well played. _At least there's one way I can still manage to top him._

Rather red now with embarrassment, the slender cat managed a chuckle and turned away, gesturing toward the steps that led to the upper balcony, the connecting colonnade, and eventually the halls which held both the royal apartments and their own. "Score one for your side, big guy. Anyway, I'm starving. Let's grab something to eat...and then, if you're up for it, we can see about a game of mahjong." He grinned, having recovered some of his confidence.

Yong smirked right back and nodded, twitching his whiskers in anticipation; this was one other arena in which he could, if not beat Xuan on a regular basis, at least equal him. "You're on!"

Needless to say they bantered the entire way to the kitchens and back, and even after having stuffed their faces—both of them, for despite being so slender and lithe Wu Xuan was as big an eater as he was—they were still going at it as they traversed the upper corridors of the palace. If the topic wasn't Yong's supposed failings as a fighter (outright accusations that he was becoming "a little too tubby" flew by frequently) or betting just when the next Mongol invasion would take place (Yong opined it would be "the fourth of Bù Yuè" but Xuan, more cautious and wary, wasn't so sure), it was whether winning at sword-fighting or arm-wrestling was more important or just how much prowess they possessed in the bedroom.

Or at least, the smaller leopard was indulging in this last one; as always, his more strait-laced and traditional friend (Xuan would call him "uptight") took great pains to either stay out of it, refusing to be drawn into such tawdry commentary, or somehow finding the most scrupulously proper way to phrase his contributions. (He had to admit to a certain pride in coming up with some very unusual and never-before-heard euphemisms.)

As they came around a corner into yet another empty, brazier-lit hallway remarkable only for its exquisite tapestries (which he recognized as being of Qinghai make) and a servant puttering around near the far end, the beige snow leopard went a bit too far, however. "I have to say, though, with the way those concubines were looking at you, buddy...hot _damn_ if they weren't raring to get their paws on snow kitty muscle!"

Yong whirled about on Xuan, claws partly unsheathed, fur bristling, muscles swelling, and when he snapped out a reply, half-hiss, half-roar, the servant down the hall—who looked to have just emerged from the Emperor's chambers with a covered tray—flinched and reared back, sidling away with a definite nervousness. "Do...you..._mind_?"

"What?" His friend smiled, spreading his paws in artful innocence as he continued sauntering down the hall. "Oh, come on, you know it's just talk. Of course we're married, so we'd never do anything. But there's nothing wrong with looking or talking about it, is there?"

"Not that," Yong growled in annoyance. Or at least, not only that; his Jian did in fact not mind in the least if he noticed other women, because she knew full well that he'd never cheat on her if he valued his ability to have a family, but the idea still made him uncomfortable—loyalty and faithfulness were the virtues he was proudest of. Forcing himself to calm down, he kept his tone diffident and polite, his posture unthreatening no matter how truly scandalized he was. "I don't know what your parents were like, my friend, but I am quite certain they taught you to watch your language better than that."

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the servant had finally worked up the nerve to move down the hall, heading toward a cross passage halfway down it, one they happened to be blocking access to, and the fellow looked positively terrified. At once he resolved to apologize to the poor frog as soon as he got the chance.

Wu Xuan was looking at him with exaggerated disbelief. "What has your tail in a twist? There aren't any kids around."

"No, but _I _am," Yong said pointedly. He frowned at the servant, who was bowing and murmuring apologies as he attempted to get past Xuan and down the side passage. There was something odd there, but what? The cut of his clothes did seem strangely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on why.

The beige leopard rolled his eyes and smirked. "Well when you put it that way, you are a lot like a big cub sometimes."

"Why you—" He found himself shaking his finger at Xuan, who was laughing, and he quickly dropped his paw.

"A thousand pardons, _huīxià_," the servant said again, making it past the smaller cat at last and backing down the passage, bowing all the while. He was still holding the tray, clutching it to him like a ward against evil, though his eyes kept flicking back down the hall, toward the door of the Emperor's chamber. Was he afraid they'd disturbed him? Xuan didn't even notice, simply waving him on. _Strange accent_, Yong thought absently. _Must not be a native Mandarin speaker. Cantonese, perhaps. Or else from—_

His eyes widened.

"Yeah, I know, that was low, even for me. But you've really got to learn you can't make everyone follow your—"

"Xuan!" He reached out and seized his friend's wrist, cutting him off. "That's not a servant!"

There was only time for those green eyes to widen, too, and his lithe body to begin to turn, before the amphibian was moving—dropping the tray with a sonorous clang so that its teapot and crockery shattered on the floor, hurling the cover at Yong, and then pulling a knife from concealment in his sleeve to send it streaking toward Xuan.

For all his friend's bragging about his speed and agility, however, it was the bigger spotted cat who moved faster for once, turning what was supposed to be a distraction into a mistake on their enemy's part: catching the silver cover out of the air, he instead flung it back the way it had come so that it struck the dagger, sending the blade spinning away into the shadows.

As the sounds of ringing metal echoed in the passageway, the "servant" was already taking advantage of the delay, turning and fleeing down the side corridor as fast as he could move—his confining palace livery easily unbound and detached, then flung aside as he disappeared into the distance. Wu Xuan snarled and started to leap after him, but Yong caught his arm and he whirled back. "Why did you stop me?! He's getting away!"

"He doesn't matter now!" Panic flared tightly in his chest. "Don't you get it? _He was in the Emperor's chamber! _"

That was all it took; the lighter-hued cat was instantly leaping down the hallway toward the doorway where the frog had emerged only a few minutes before, his tail lashing, fur puffed so that he looked twice his usual size, an ugly growl rattling in his throat. Yet somehow as he ran, and Yong sprinted after him as fast as he could, he managed to speak. "How did you know he was an assassin?"

"His clothing," Yong panted. "It must've been habit, but he'd tied the belt of his livery the way they do in the southern provinces, instead of like the Han do. But those provinces have been in rebellion against Chen for quite a while now, no one from there would be working in the palace, not unless they had an ulterior motive—especially not Yunnan. And that's where his accent was from."

If there'd been time, Xuan might have praised his observational skills and quick thinking, but just as they were only a few steps away from the Emperor's door, Yong sniffed the air, catching a whiff of chemicals, burning, and what smelled like gunpowder. "**_NO!_** Xuan, it's a—"

The door exploded, disintegrating into wooden shrapnel and pulverized stone, a huge cloud of dirty, acrid smoke and roiling fire bursting out of the now-empty archway, straight at the smaller leopard. But as soon as he'd detected the bomb, Yong had leaped forward with every ounce of strength in his powerful legs, grabbed hold of Xuan to yank him about, and cradled him in his arms, shielding him with his massive bulk. _Seems a life as a farmer is good for something after all_, he thought dazedly as they were both thrown clear of the debris to slam into the far wall.

He could feel sudden aches and pains stabbing him everywhere, sizzling pain all over the flesh and fur of his back and shoulders where smoldering embers had lodged and burned through his tunic, deep scrapes from violently flung pieces of wood, deeper bruises from battering chunks of rock. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that Xuan was safe beneath him, between him and the wall...and that he could hear, with a clarity that had to be born of sheer willpower and keen feline senses (since he'd practically been at the epicenter of that explosion) two things. The cry of a frightened child...and the telltale shifting, cracking, and groaning from very nearby that suggested an imminent collapse.

"Yong!" Xuan's voice, by contrast, sounded muffled and distant, but even if it had been clear and ringing in his ears he would have ignored it. Lurching to his feet, heart pounding wildly, he leaped toward the halo of smoke and brightly glowing stone that had been the doorway to the royal chambers—and got there just in time.

The heat that seared into his palmpads as they gripped overheated rock on either side—that belonged to someone else. The incredible weight upon head, shoulders, and back, as if a mountain were pressing down upon them, enough to make knees tremble on the verge of collapse before they locked into place—that belonged to someone else too. He was not weak, but strong; not desperately futile, but with a stamina and endurance that would not fail; not a fighter and killer, but a hero and protector. He was the instrument of the gods—because the Emperor _would not perish_. Not now. Not while he still had breath in his body.

And so, because he must, because there was no one else, because he had simply decided it would be so, he did it. Like the mountains of Kunlun Shan, he stood...he braced...he held. Every muscle taut and flexed, his chest heaving against his tunic, his shoulders rising to shrug the rock aside like those of a giant, his biceps bulging until he swore he could feel every vein standing out through his spotted fur...Yong _held_. The doorframe had buckled and snapped, bringing down the ceiling—but he held, he supported it, and because of his strength, his will, his simple refusal to accept otherwise, it did not fall.

Leaving an opening still to what otherwise would have been a sealed tomb, a chamber filled with flames to consume its helpless, trapped occupants. A space between his widely spread legs. A space through which escape could be made.

How long he stood there, he didn't know. It felt like dynasties, yet he knew it could not have been more than a minute—the rising heat burning into his paws, the creaking and groaning of timbers and stone from the room beyond, the weight slowly but steadily bearing down on him, it could not have lasted more than that. Yet it still seemed ages before he heard Xuan's voice, coming from below and behind him, a call sent through cupped paws to be heard over the crackling fire.

It seemed eons before he heard shouts and screams, the crying child close at hand, furious questions and gasps of astonishment, and then the scrabbling of hands and feet on stone as figures began to slip between his limbs. Somehow, despite the constant and deadly danger literally bearing down on his head, Yong couldn't help but think, with a mordant surreality, _Less talk, more crawl. Must move faster, yes!_

Managing to flick his watering eyes downward, he caught sight of motion through the smoke and shimmering heat-haze: the heir to the throne first, an adorable little tiger no more than three or four but who at the moment was whimpering and wailing in terror instead of laughing and begging for treats, his eyes wide, flat, and staring instead of brimming over with love and delight; then the Empress, a frankly stunning tiger with that rare fur of the purest white covering a frame so slender and supple she seemed more mustelid than feline, but with soot and ash standing out starkly in her pelt and only a simple linen nightdress instead of her usual sumptuous robes of richly embroidered and bejeweled silk.

And then at last Chen, his still-youthful frame moving swiftly, surely, and purposefully despite the ragged coughs coming from behind the paw he held to his muzzle, muscles bulging and dripping with sweat as he worked rapidly but with care to make it out of the fiery furnace that had been his chambers. They all crawled between his legs, helped out by Xuan's reaching paws, dragged down the hall away from the growing conflagration to safety where, presumably, bodyguards, soldiers, and other attendants would be getting them to the Imperial physician.

They were safe. The assassination had failed. But the price for it had been high, since rushing to the rescue had placed Yong in a precarious and inescapable position—he'd kept the arch from collapsing, allowing the royal family to make it out alive, but only by trading his life for theirs. There was no possible way he could pull free, leap clear of the falling debris, before it crushed him. Not when it took all his strength to brace it, not when he wasn't nearly fast enough to dare such a dexterous, rapid maneuver. Which meant...

He was just beginning to relax his muscles as he accepted the painful truth, to take a deep breath, offer up a mournful apology to Jian and a last prayer to the gods that they take care of her and his family, when he suddenly felt paws gripping his shoulders like iron. "Don't...you..._dare_."

Slowly, as now that the lives of his Emperor and his family were no longer on the line he could feel every immense pound of stone and wood sinking down upon him as he had not allowed himself to before, he turned his head to look over his shoulder. It was Wu Xuan, of course, and those green eyes burned with something he'd never seen there before—absolute fury, but also an aching devotion and caring reserved only for a true soulmate. Someone whose bond with you transcended everything, even meant more than blood and family and ancestors.

"I know it looks hopeless," the smaller leopard choked out before he could muster up a word, though whether from the smoke filling the air or his riotous emotions, Yong couldn't tell. "But that is _exactly_ the time when you should _not_ give up! You did something amazing today, Yong. Something I couldn't do. Something no one else could do. I never meant any of those barbs I used on you, you know that—but if I had, I'd be taking every one back right now. So _damnit_, don't you _dare_ give up! Not now, not ever."

"Xuan..." He didn't know what to say, but he had to make sure that if someone died today, it was only him, not both of them. "I...thank you. But...I can't...I can't hold it up much longer. You have to...get away. Save yourself." He felt his knees buckle, nearly fell, and even as he braced himself against the sides of the door again, the collapsing ceiling seemed to become a hundred pounds heavier. He groaned.

"_Fuck_ that!" And as Yong began to give in fully to despair, and thought with somewhat delirious bemusement that his friend _would_ make it so the last words he ever heard in this life were an obscenity, the slender leopard dropped his paws down to his larger friend's waist, latched on tight, and yanked, jerking them both backwards out of the doorway.

It was over before he even realized it, both of them landing sprawled once more on the floor for the second time in as many minutes, only this time despite still being on top he was the one being saved. They rolled and tumbled, his friend pulling and tugging on him to make them keep moving until they were several yards down the corridor, well away from the fire and rockfall.

He could see it before he heard it, the timbers and broken stone he'd been holding up falling almost in slow motion to fill the opening, cutting off the bedchamber and spilling out into the hall. Then came the noise, the crashing and rumbling, smashing and shattering, and a huge cloud of dust that actually succeeded in smothering much of the flames. It, too, seemed like it would go on forever.

At last, though, the broken rock and wood subsided, the sound began to fade into more distant parts of the palace, and the dust began to settle. Swallowing hard, Yong stared at what had once been a doorway, where he had just been standing, noticing how a few small tendrils of smoke and steam still rose from between the stones that completely filled the cracked arch and poured out onto the floor, but otherwise no trace of the fire remained. He was sure the guards would need to bring pumps and buckets from the fountains and even the Canal to put it out fully from the balconies and windows, before it spread to the rest of the palace. But here at least, the danger was past.

Slowly he turned and looked at his friend, lying half-beside, half-under him. The look of fading fear, frustration, and dawning, hopeful relief he found in those jade eyes was, he was certain, reflected in his own brown ones.

"Th-thank you, Xuan. I don't know what to say, except that."

"Nothing else needs to be said. It's what friends are for." The beige leopard smiled—and then brought his fist down, hard, right on top of his head.

"Ow! What in the hell was that for?!"

"Oh, so you can talk like a normal person after all," Xuan drawled sardonically. "And you know damn well what it was for."

Yong opened his mouth, ready to offer an angry retort...and then let it close as he sighed, hanging his head. "You're right. Of course you're right. I'm sorry. It's not that I'm fatalistic or anything. It's just...we're the Emperor's bodyguards. It's our job to make sure he and his family don't die, even if we have to die instead to ensure it. We all knew this when we signed on. We've accepted it. _I've_ accepted it. I'm not going to throw my life away needlessly—not when I have a family, friends..." He squeezed Xuan's paw; he had to make him understand.

"...so much to live for. And not when every day longer I live is one more in which I can keep our ruler safe. But...someday, it may happen that I will have to give my life. That there won't be any other way to save him, or no way to get me out of it. If that happens...you have to accept _that_."

"I will." The beige leopard's voice cracked slightly, but his expression remained as steady as stone. "But until then, I want you to promise me something: that I _never_ see that look on your face again."

"What look?" He cringed at the scathing look that feigned innocence had earned him.

"The one that says 'I'm checking out, there's no reason to keep fighting, might as well go to the Lords of Death now and hope I've earned enough good karma'. Because even if you have, Yong...what you said is true. You do have so much to live for. You won't know how much more you can accomplish if you just give up on life, you don't know when things are truly hopeless and when they're just a really tough challenge the gods set you. And...I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do all I could to help you, save you. So don't you leave that decision, that fight, all up to me. Got it?"

He felt completely foolish. Xuan was right. He'd given up because he thought there was no way out and it was the right thing to do, that he'd been heroic and so could now be a martyr. He'd done it without even fully considering whether there was another option, another chance. Maybe someday he'd end up in a time and place where there really wasn't, where his only choice was to die. But that didn't mean every encounter was the same. And how would he know if he didn't try?

He noticed Chen standing a few feet down the hall, gazing at their prone forms with pride, approval, and a slightly quivering chin, with his empress and his son right beside him being attended by courtiers and doctors with damp cloths, bandages and ointment, and glasses of water. Smiling warmly at them, he turned back to his friend and embraced him as tightly as he dared, whispering in his ear. "I've got it. And I promise."

While they were still holding each other close, the heir to the throne suddenly bounded onto them, crying out excitedly and happily with peals of laughter, hugging each of them but especially clinging to the "big brave spottycat" that had held up the _whole_ palace to save him. Then the Empress was there, offering a much more sedate kiss to his cheek and tears of gratitude, followed by Chen himself thanking him with humility and wonder, shaking with how close to death he and his family had come as he offered words of deepest respect, honoring him with medals, a promotion among the guards, whatever he wished, whatever would show the people what he had done for him and for China. And of course the courtiers and soldiers seemed just as in awe of him.

But all he had eyes, and a fond smile, for was Wu Xuan. _I was right. This wasn't my day to die, I didn't want to, and I'm glad I didn't. Maybe someday it will be the day, when the time is right._

_Not today though. Not today._

* * *

Rubbing the back of his neck with one black-furred paw, Lieutenant-General Bao sighed and leaned back in his camp chair (which creaked rather alarmingly, as it hadn't been designed for someone of his size and bulk), working the kinks from his muscles as he stared down at the Go board before him. He'd been at it all morning, ever since rising at the crack of dawn—with the vagaries of warfare, the ebb and flow of battle that was just as likely to leave him surrounded by horrific violence and bloody carnage as it was tense sieges and tedious boredom, if not more so, he had to take advantage of every narrow window he received. Not because he was particularly desperate for chances to relax and entertain himself (though the game provided that, too), but because of what else the game offered.

He'd never been to any sort of formal academy, whether military or kung fu, he'd had no experience on the battlefield prior to becoming an Imperial soldier, and while it was true that all the theoretical planning and devising in the empire couldn't replace what you learned in actual combat, that kind of training was predicated on the notion of actually, well, _surviving_. You couldn't use it if you were dead. Go let him hone and develop his craft by actually putting real battle plans into play on the board without being in mortal danger, as well as simply practice strategy and tactics in general. _Whoever invented this game had to be a military man. And a genius._

The panda shook his head and smiled to himself. Not for the first time he had to wonder about the coloration of the stones; he was fairly certain they'd actually been devised to reflect Yin and Yang, but the fact they also matched his own fur colors had to make him wonder. It was as if the gods were telling him he was meant to fight, but in a balanced way. Not that the way his mind raced when plotting and scheming, or how his blood pumped during combat, didn't already tell him that...

He had just pulled another white stone from the _jujube _bowl and placed it on a point when there came a sudden commotion from outside, and then a figure burst into his tent, panting and breathing hard. "Bao! _TongJun_ Bao, sir!" It was the Sichuan golden langur, Chan Lei.

Bao frowned at the interruption, not only of his leisure time and concentration, but of what amounted to very critical planning for the army's next moves. All messengers knew better than to enter without being announced, and although he had corrected himself, the monkey had first spoken with inappropriate familiarity. The panda had half a mind to order him to march right back out and not return until he had adopted the proper attitude and actions, or at least to growl furiously and treat him with contempt the entire time he was reporting.

But then he caught himself...not only was that the entirely wrong way to treat his men if he wanted true loyalty and service, if he wanted to be a good commander and a decent person, it was far too reminiscent of how General Hao often acted toward his lessers in such a situation. A good tactician and warrior the tiger might be, and also a friendly and likable sort if you knew how to get on his good side, disarm his stuffy demeanor by appealing to his vanity or his personal interests, but he wasn't a particularly good role model as far as class distinctions went.

Besides...Bao himself was of peasant stock, would never forget it or his ties to the land, the people, all those for whom and by whom these wars were truly fought. And Lei was his friend, had been one of the first to welcome him to infantry training when few others would.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he forced himself to relax, leaned back in his chair, and regarded the soldier attentively. "What is it, Lei?"

Although the simian seemed to relax somewhat when it became clear his superior wasn't going to have him clapped in chains or bark nastily at him, there was still something very nervous and distressed about his expression and the way he interlaced his long fingers; when he heard the report, he learned why. "We got news from the front, sir. It...it don't look good. The Manchurians, they...they've flanked us."

"What?!" Bao leapt to his feet, nearly knocking over the _goban _and the bowl of stones in his haste. Part of him worried about such a display of uncontrolled emotion—that even if straits truly were that dire, it was hardly good for morale to let anyone else see it, know how bad things had gotten, but the rest of him knew that was Hao talking again. In any case he couldn't help it: this news really was that upsetting, not to mention frustrating. "But how in the hell—we were watchin' every—"

Slumping his shoulders and looking quite distraught, Lei half-turned and gestured behind him. "Maybe you'd better come see for yourself. Maybe if you do, you'll figure out how to save us. Again. If anyone can, it's you."

The panda swallowed against a lump in his throat; his men had such faith in him, believed he could do anything, work any kind of miracle on the battlefield, because he had so many times before. But what if this was the one time he overlooked a key detail, got too overconfident, wasn't bold or brave or ruthless enough, or was up against a commander who outclassed him?

Glancing at the Go board one last time, he grabbed his helmet from the back of his chair and his sword from where it stood propped against the table, then strode purposefully after the langur. _No. Not gonna happen. I'm not lettin' them down this time._

By the time he had gotten his helmet properly situated and his sword strapped at his waist, and he'd gotten Lei to answer a few more of his hurried, insistent questions—not as many as he would have liked, nor in as much detail because of the Sichuan soldier's worry and lack of information, but enough to get him thinking and planning—they had already wound their way through the maze of tents to reach the edge of camp. Situated near a bluff overlooking the field of battle several miles north and below, it was a little close for comfort should the lines get overrun or a lucky or skilled archer got his arrows through, but there was no other way to be near enough should reinforcements be needed, or to keep a watchful, assessing eye on the maneuvers and course of the fighting.

The rest of the senior officers were already gathered, including General Hao and his aides, but even as he took a deep breath and girded himself for the debates, disagreements, and battle of wills which would rival the one taking place at the front, Bao was already several steps ahead, seeking about on the nearest tables for the maps he would need while pulling out his spyglass so he could examine the situation firsthand.

With the glass to his eye so the panda could receive a clear (and rather distressingly up-close) view, the reason for Lei's distress was just as transparent. To the north and west at the edge of the Da Hinggan Ling, the mountain range which cut off this portion of Heilongjiang from Inner Mongolia, he could see what had escaped all of their notice before—the rugged peaks which had seemed impassable upon first or even third glance contained a pass, little more than a notch really, but wide enough to allow men to march through, although they had to be funneled to no more than three abreast.

This in turn gave access to a winding road so hidden along the cliff face that only a bird could have seen it from above (and their army happened not to possess an aerial division), a road that was even now letting the Manchurian army pour down from the mountains like a crawling mass of insects ready to consume everything they encountered...which included the now nearly-defenseless town of Qiqihar that lay unprotected on this bank of the Nen Jiang River.

Softly, Bao cursed. He had been certain that if any reinforcements would be coming to shore up the Manchurian lines, if any clever maneuvering and strategic actions would be applied against the Han, it would all come from or involve only the eastern and northeastern parts of the province—that if any mountains would be crossed by their enemies, it would be the _Xiao _Hinggan Ling.

He didn't know if the opposing commander was simply that crafty and guileful, or if the ranks of the rebels' army had been swelled by conscripts from Inner Mongolia that had given them knowledge and insight into the lands to the west...but either way, it was an unexpected move he had overlooked, and if he couldn't come up with one equally brilliant to counter it, it would cost them dearly.

As he lowered the glass and turned back to regard the maps laid out before him, the panda felt as much as saw the solid, bulky presence of someone coming up beside him, and then a familiar voice—gruff, fierce, and no-nonsense, but with an underlying smoothness and pompous lilt which could only be picked up by spending much time in noble circles, particularly in the capital—sounded in his ear. "So. The fortunes of war turn against us once more. And this despite all your careful planning, _TongJun_." The words were spoken without rancor, calm and well-modulated, but the accusation was implicit in them nevertheless.

Turning to look at General Hao, he returned a tone equally direct, unwavering, and blunt, even as he kept himself from lashing out with the bitterness and ire that would earn him a demotion, or a reprimand if he was lucky. "_Everyone's_ careful planning, sir. And no one could have seen this coming." He was quite proud at how he'd absolved the general of responsibility in the same breath he'd made it clear just who else was at fault in this failure of tactics. "What matters now is that we figure out a way out of this."

His first immediate thought was that they needed a way to block the Manchurians before they fully descended through the mountains, perhaps even bring the slope down beneath them or an avalanche down atop them. But examining the maps, once he located the tiny indicator symbolizing the pass which he had missed before, was of no use in that regard, as there was nothing suggesting the ridgeline had any flaws, weaknesses, or oddities they could take advantage of.

And when he looked again through the glass, he could see quite clearly now how well-worn the road leading to the pass was, how the pass was kept carefully maintained and clear of boulders or scree; while it was secret enough he hadn't known or heard of it, obviously enough people made use of it to keep it in good condition. When he looked closer at the expanse of rock on either side of the notch, however, he noticed something that made his breath catch and his heart beat a little faster, and when he double-checked it on the map he was certain he was right.

"General," Bao said at last, handing over his spyglass and pointing to the right and above the pass. "Tell me what you see."

The grizzled, gray-bearded tiger looked a bit nettled, as usual finding the panda's direct and informal way of speaking an affront to his sensibilities, since it seemed to suggest he saw them as equals. But he complied...and while his expression barely changed, it did seem more concentrated, its annoyance directed at what he saw rather than his lieutenant. "A great deal of rock," he observed sardonically. "And many rebellious traitors bent on slaughtering us, who are drawing ever closer while we stand here and watch them."

Ignoring Hao's pointed and bitter tone, the panda turned to Lei, who was hovering silent and uncomfortable nearby. "And what about you, _Duifu_?" Even as he was careful to use the proper rank, he also was very much aware of the tiger's disapproving gaze on the back of his neck for simply daring to speak to the lieutenant at all, let alone seek his advice. But even aside from Lei being his friend, he trusted the man's insight and judgment.

Swallowing hard, the langur flicked his gaze briefly to the general before looking where Bao had indicated. Even before he took the glass, though, his eyesight (which was far keener than Hao's, thanks to the latter's age outweighing his species) picked out what the panda had noticed. Narrowing his eyes, Lei frowned, then gasped. "There's another path there—two of 'em, one on each side!" Looking through the glass to see better detail, he added, "An' they come down the mountain to cut across where the Manchurians are gonna be!"

Nodding in vindication, Bao pointed again, his finger following the course of the narrow, winding trails. "You see, sir? If we can get our men up those creases before the army gets down the cliff, we can not only keep them from reaching the city, we can hold them there pretty much indefinitely. Those ledges are only wide for one, maybe two men to stand abreast. We can bottleneck the Manchurians if we get there before they do, and once we do…"

"...then it won't matter how many men they have," the _Jiangjun_ said slowly, "because they'll be forced to move single file. One or two of ours will be able to hold them off, with a steady supply of reinforcements coming up behind them when they become too tired or wounded to carry on." He grunted, but the suspicion and contempt were slowly bleeding out of his voice, replaced by a grudging respect, and his craggy face was soon split by a suggestive smirk. "So...you're literally going to head them off at the pass?"

Lei slapped his forehead and groaned, but the other men nearby—even the unit commander and his second—chuckled appreciatively. Puffing his armored chest out, the panda nodded firmly, his paw already moving to the hilt of his sword and his eyes bright as he gazed across the river valley toward the rising dust cloud descending the cliff face. "You got it. And I'm going to do it myself, lead the way. With your permission, sir."

Hao's eyes were just as bright with bloodthirsty eagerness as he gave the command.

Luckily for all of them, the army had already been gathered, partly due to its usual state of readiness, partly out of curiosity and concern for the new development all the men had noticed and been watching with trepidation. So it didn't take long at all to finish mobilization, dividing the companies between himself and Hao (making quite certain to keep Lei in his own division) and setting off down the slopes and across the river valley so as to reach the cliffs before the Manchurians had come too far and Qiqihar would lay defenseless to their attacks. By the time they had crossed the ford at the Nen Jiang and approached the base of the bluffs, the dust cloud had grown enormous and the sounds on the humid air—clanking metal, creaking leather, pounding feet, and the building roar of many men eager for action and blood—were growing steadily louder.

But the Han were brave, they believed in their leaders and knew their cause...defending their homeland and their livelihood...was right against such pillaging butchers, and the skill and competency of those in charge was undeniable. Like the Go board, all the pieces had been properly maneuvered into place, the strategy was flawless leaving only timing and actual strength of arms left to determine who would be the victor this day. And as for that fighting itself?

The panda glanced across at the tiger where he stood poised with his sword held at the ready, fangs bared and gleaming in the sunlight, claws unsheathed, every muscle taut and tense beneath his umber and black fur, and for once they were united in the same stance, the same expression, the same lust for combat. He had learned to cultivate this side of himself beneath Hao's tutelage—one of the few lessons he was without reservation willing to learn, and one of the few ways he had been able to earn the general's respect and acceptance.

And in all honesty? Grinning slowly to himself, his broad muzzle twisted with fiendish delight as he raised his own blade two-handed beside his face, he chuckled low and dark. _I wouldn't have it any other way. This is what I was made for._

With a bellowed command, Bao sent the two halves of his troops surging up the narrow ledges, ready to intercept and roaring with barely-contained fury at those who had outsmarted and nearly overwhelmed them.

Despite the narrow confines of the paths upward, the regiments flowed and poured toward the heights like waves cresting on the China Sea, single and double lines snaking along the rocky cuts in endless streams...and even before they reached their foes, the bear knew it would be a rout. It wouldn't be one he would hang back from and merely observe from the sidelines, however, oh no; not only was he the sort to lead from the front, to not ask risks of his men he would not take himself, but he absolutely enjoyed the blood-pumping thrill of being right there amid the action.

So that was exactly what he did.

The first pair of Manchurians coming down the cut only had time to stare in shock, first as they beheld an armored panda barreling up toward them, then as they realized that rather than waddling comically he was more like a muscular behemoth bearing down on them with clear skill and competency with his weapon. The truth of this was borne out when Bao effortlessly knocked aside the blade aimed at his throat, only to whirl and slash again and again with incredible speed—twisting to the left, pivoting to the right, so that he was never in the same place twice, and with such power behind his blows that very few who struck rose again...and the ones who did went down on the second strike instead.

In quick succession he struck high, low, high and low again, bringing down two wolves, a fox, and a sand cat. Even as they struggled to rise from the ground, not yet aware their wounds were mortal and their blood was spilling in fatal amounts into the dirt, other soldiers were moving in behind (and even over) them...and the panda took them out, too. The first came at him with his weapon raised, snarling at him in Manchurian, only to be taken completely by surprise when Bao ducked low and slashed, cutting right through his legs and knocking him prone—there to scream and writhe in the agony of both severed limbs.

Next came another feline, a leopard of some sort, his blade gleaming in the sunlight as it flashed with extreme rapidity—but the panda was fast on his feet, and although the cat slashed at him again and again, Bao succeeded in leaping to avoid that crescent each time and thus drew his opponent farther down the path after him until he was completely out of position...then twisted one final time and bent to kick hard, sending him screaming over the side toward the ground far below.

The third was a ram who fought bare-knuckled like a monk, save for a pair of metal gloves that he thought were called _nekode_; but although the spikes in their palms were deadly, all he had to do was slash hard and fast to knock them away and keep them from connecting, then duck down on one knee so that the ovine flew right over his head, tumbling down the cliffside and falling in among the Han soldiers who quickly dispatched him. The fourth was a crocodile that, even as the reptile rushed him, Bao leaped backwards to evade, then did a backflip to bring his feet right into its ugly snout—followed up by a slash of his sword that nearly split its skull in two.

And the fifth was a gaur with a pair of hook swords that he wielded with sobering dexterity and skill, but the panda was just as swift—bringing his _dadao _up near his face to knock one incoming blade away, then immediately twisting it around and downward to slam into the handle of the other so that it swung backwards in the bovine's hand...embedding its curving blades in its owner's abdomen. He collapsed with a low of mingled anguish and disbelief as blood spewed between vainly clutching fingers.

Yet the next warrior, another wolf who despite the gray streaking his face and beard and the powerfully-thewed muscles of his build was just as agile, flexible, and clever as men half his age and far leaner in physique, gave Bao pause...for he bore a _jian _of exquisite craftsmanship and material, and with the skill of a true blademaster. The panda widened his eyes—then narrowed them. This would be a true test of his skill, not just his ferocity, and he very much looked forward to it.

The wolf approached with steady calm and unyielding determination, nodding slowly in acknowledgment of his enemy as an opponent worthy of facing him. The lieutenant-general nodded in return, even bowing formally as the sounds of the battle around and behind him began to fade into the silent roar of focused combat.

And then, even as he was dimly aware of his men continuing to fight along the ledge, taking care of any Manchurians which made it past the wolf and thus allowing him the luxury to remain devoted to this enemy alone, he struck—already sensing the incoming blow before it neared him, he rose swiftly from his bow, swung his sword up in a perfect horizontal to block the other blade with a ringing clang. Sliding the weapons edge on edge until they parted, he leaped back a pace to give himself more room, and the fight was on.

Neither could circle the other due to the narrowness of the ledge, but they did pace back and forth as best as they could—eyeing one another, gazes calculating and assessing, hands gripping the hilts of their swords, breath measured and even. Neither was willing to make the first move, but eventually someone had to; Bao twisted to the side to present a (relatively) narrower profile, bent and ducked, then slashed—not at his opponent's legs as his position would suggest was his goal, but upwards at an angle toward his chest.

With impossible speed, the wolf twisted, too, pivoting on one foot so that the incoming blade just missed him as it passed alongside the metal plates of his lamellar cuirass; in the same movement he whirled his torso to bring his _jian _down toward the side of Bao's neck, where there was just enough of a gap between his armored shoulder and the bottom of his helmet.

Rather wishing to avoid decapitation, the panda finished the motion he'd begun, going down on one knee so that the canine's blade missed him as well; rolling over and back to his feet again, he found himself fetching up against the rocky wall of the cliff face, but as the wolf came charging in toward him, he leapt upward, braced his feet against the stone behind him, and thrust powerfully—propelling himself forward, under the incoming swing, and even letting him get another slash in that his opponent barely blocked in time.

For a moment, as he again rolled back to his feet, Bao caught a gleam of respect in the wolf's dark eyes.

Again and again their blades met with fierce, clashing rings; Bao used the terrain to his advantage, leaping up atop boulders or ledges whenever he got the chance to gain the high ground or simply evade further crescent swings. Once he managed to trap the wolf's blade with his own against the cliff face behind him as he held it horizontally over his head; a few minutes later he succeeded again, this time by standing atop his own sword and bringing his full weight down to hold the _jian_ beneath it to the rock he'd leapt onto. A little later he let out a cry of triumph as he knocked his enemy sprawling, an act that, though it lasted only seconds before the canine was back on his feet once more, clearly had startled and unsettled him by the way he eyed the panda more warily from then on.

His pulse pounded in his ears and he lost himself to the rhythm of battle, the joy of combat—his excitement, passion, and ferocity building even as he kept them in check, channeled into every shift and leap, every swing and slash, with precision and care. He lost count of how many times each of their blades met—high, low, along the side; thrust, feint, parry; half-circle, full-circle, reverse; kissing each other's throats until strands of fur were parted by the razor-sharp metal, meeting in X's across their chests; striking at abdomens or groins, flickering and whirling and rotating endlessly through the air.

Even though he could feel the burn of exertion and, buried beneath it, the onset of fatigue, those sensations did not matter; they belonged to someone else. All that mattered was winning this fight, not just so he could proceed to the next and lead his men to victory, but because he simply wanted to win, to prove he was better than a swordsman of such caliber. Dashing sweat from his brow, he clenched his paw tighter around his _dadao_'s hilt and renewed his efforts.

The wolf made a sudden lunge that caught him by surprise, and for a moment he thought he was done for, had allowed himself to become too distracted and overconfident, for the dark blade was coming right in to slice again toward his throat. But somehow he caught himself in time and, with an agility and flexibility that stunned even himself, Bao bent backwards so that the sword passed directly over his face instead, leaving him unharmed. _Gah! No more close shaves like that!_

Although he possessed more muscle than fat, he was still ungainly enough that leaning back in such a manner caused him to lose his balance. Yet even as he toppled back and rolled across the rock before rising to his feet again, the cloud of dust which rose up around him gave him an idea—and before he had even finished standing, he struck downward into the ledge beneath him, scraped the blade back along the stone, and sent a huge spray of dirt flying back and upwards—right into the wolf's intent face.

For the first time during their combat aside from pants and grunts, his opponent made a sound, a snarl of anger and disgust, and his arm came up to ward the unexpected attack away. But it was too late, and without a sleeve to aid him and his fur already marred with dust and sweat, he could do naught but blearily blink against the obstruction to his vision. Bao grinned to himself, exulting at the advantage this resourceful move had granted to him. Carefully, as silently as one of his bulk could manage (which, again, was far more than most would ever believe of him—his instructors had taught him well), he shifted back away from the frozen form of the wolf, one step at a time, until he was as far to the side and out of the path of attack as the ledge would allow.

Then, just as he was ready to leap forward without warning and strike the man down, his foot came down on a loose pebble that scraped across the stone.

Instantly the Manchurian, who had been poised waiting for any indication of his presence, ears straining, exploded into action, vaulting forward to bring his _jian_ up and across in a wide sweep intended to knock his own sword far out of position, perhaps even fling it from his hand. But some instinct told the panda what to do, a sacrifice move that would actually save his life. Dodging the incoming blade, he allowed himself to be knocked backward and flung off his feet—but even as he landed with a grunt of pain, the wind knocked out of him, he stabbed upward, straight and true.

And the wolf, his momentum still bringing him onward and the dirt still blinding him to what lay before him, impaled himself on the _dadao_ as its blade slid between the metal discs of his armor right into his heart.

Everything seemed to stop, time standing still for those next few heartbeats, as he stared upward in disbelief and the other swordsman hung there on his weapon, a stunned look of agony and self-rebuke etched into his aged features. Then, slowly, the sense of his own failure seemed to fade, and the wolf actually smiled at him, slightly. "Well...played," he gasped softly. "You...truly are...the better. It...is no shame to lose to you…" His knees buckled, and as Bao withdrew his blade without thinking, the canine collapsed on the ledge with a sigh, blood pouring from the wound and also leaking heavily from his mouth as his _jian_ fell from nerveless fingers.

How long he lay like that, he didn't know, though it could not have been long; by the time he looked up to pay attention to his surroundings again, and time seemed to have returned to normal, his men had swarmed up the ledge around and past him, taking on the next wave of Manchurians and leaving him to his own devices. The panda didn't mind, for not only did they know what to do, he had taught them well, but the loss of this swordsman seemed to have demoralized this contingent of the enemy, breaking their ranks and their wills even as they still had no choice but to fight on desperately for survival.

And he couldn't take his eyes off the man he'd killed. The man it had felt _good_ to kill, to defeat, to outmatch, even as it also made him want to bury his face in his paws and cry. There'd been no other alternative, it was him or the other man, and if he had lost, this swordsman would surely have decimated the Han army even if he still lost his life in the process. And the wolf had accepted the outcome, even seemed to welcome it.

But he had been such a great warrior; even if he had trained other fighters in the way of the sword so that his skill and knowledge could live on beyond him, how many more might there have been, what more might he have passed on, if he had been allowed to keep teaching? What might he have taught Bao himself, if they had met under other circumstances, as friends or allies?

He had had no choice. He had to keep telling himself that. And this man had chosen to stand with rebels, invaders, traitors.

_But he had honor. I only won 'cause I cheated. And I didn't even know his name._

The rest of the battle went by as a blur for him after that. Somehow he got back to his feet and returned to combat (though he later discovered that, without even knowing he'd done it, he had collected the wolf's _jian_ and its scabbard—even he didn't know whether it was as trophy or symbol, spoil of war or remembrance of honor, and it bothered him that he didn't). Somehow he slashed and hacked, speared and sliced, severed limbs and knocked other enemies from the heights, until all those before him were as identical as if their helmets were faceless, as if they had truly become the stones of his Go board.

And eventually, somehow, he made it to the heights of the cliff—where he could join General Hao and the other commanding officers to stand well away from the tops of the twin defiles they'd blocked, barreled up, and finally scoured clean...removed from the fighting, able to watch with varying degrees of detachment, satisfaction, and even salacious cruelty as the slaughter continued below them.

Finally, as the sun was sinking low in the western sky and afternoon light faded into twilight shadows across the heights, the battle came to an end—those Manchurians who were not dead or dying fleeing as best they could when their last courage broke, leaving only a few last stragglers to be mopped up. The entire time, as he gazed down the twists and angles of the two ledges they had used to prevent the breach of the pass...stared at the carpet of bodies, countless scattered weapons and pieces of armor, and thick layers of bloodstains that covered the rock...Bao struggled more than he ever had before in this war with the conflicting feelings within him.

These men had fought valiantly—but they were also murderers and rapists, robbers and pillagers, butchering with impunity all who had crossed their paths. The ambush he had devised and carried out had been flawless, a perfectly choreographed military move that would likely go down in the history books, something to be proud of and commended for—but the enemy had also not had a chance, it had been an utter rout. The whole thing made him sick to his stomach...but he also couldn't deny on some level that he thought those who had suffered and died deserved everything that had happened to them, that it was exactly what Hao had taught him to do and would approve of.

It was abominable. It was _glorious_.

_Who am I? Who am I becoming? Can I stop it now? ...Do I even want to?_

In the middle of this tortured uncertainty, the tiger he'd just thought of approached with a cocky swagger, all traces of his former resentment and distrust vanished into pride, self-righteousness, and pleasure. "Well now," Hao purred, a quite smug and twisted grin sitting upon his muzzle. "I take back my doubts and any other disparagements I may have had about your abilities, young man. That was a brilliant plan, I couldn't have executed it better!"

Patting the panda rather heartily on the back, he left his paw resting heavily on Bao's shoulder; although part of him longed to pull away as the touch made his skin crawl, another part that was growing larger with every moment was growing warm, glowing with the praise puffing up inside him. "You're finally starting to remind me of myself. You can be certain I'll be watching your career with great interest..."

Over the tiger's shoulder, the bear caught sight of the second-in-command from his division, a grey-furred wolf by the name of Lan Duo who, now that Bao thought about it, bore a startling resemblance to the swordsman he'd killed only many years younger; perhaps that was why the combat had bothered him so much. The expression on the soldier's face bothered him, too...one of faint nausea and extreme, if sullen, anger.

"I just bet you will," the wolf muttered.

A chilly silence settled across the plateau. "Do I detect a rebuke?" The deceptive mildness in his tone only made Bao shiver for a reason that had nothing to do with the mountain wind; as much as one of the tiger's roaring tirades was terrible to experience, it was when he spoke that quietly, with such seemingly unperturbed softness, that he was truly to be feared.

Yet the wolf stood his ground; he'd always had more stubbornness than sense. Or maybe it was courage. "Just sayin'...I know what happened today had to happen. China had to be saved, the integrity of the empire was on the line, and my people had to be stopped—" For a moment Bao's eyes bulged; he'd completely forgotten Duo was Manchurian. _Or...did ya just...let...yourself forget? _"—but this was still pretty damn harsh, and cold." His voice hardened, became more accusing. "And from what I've heard, these kinds of tactics are what you've always used and favored, sir. That Lieutenant-General Bao here isn't the first one you've...encouraged to be this bloodthirsty, vicious, and without remorse."

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, _Jinzhou_," Hao answered coldly. The frigidity of his tone and eyes did not change as he looked back to the panda; apparently whatever store of appreciation and camaraderie he'd earned with the general had been used up and worn out. "Discipline seems to be rather lax in your unit. But in the interests of fair play—and because an explanation could put to rest any further ignorant objections—I will answer."

His voice rose, not only to be heard over the wind but to declaim with bold and stirring emotion the core of his beliefs. "Whether in this war or any other, out here in the hinterlands or in the streets of the capital itself, I have but one interest and one alone. The preservation of the Han, of our society and culture, our heritage and way of life, and the reign of our sovereign Emperor. I had thought this doctrine to be one known even to the peasant folk, but let me make it quite clear: I will do _anything_ if it will serve that goal, I believe any means will justify that end."

Allowing those violently snarled words to linger and echo in the air for several long moments, the tiger relaxed his clenched fist and continued more conversationally—but still with a definite brittleness, and the constant undertone of a growl, in his voice. "If your _TongJun_ concurs, it is only because he has learned his lessons well and knows how to recognize wisdom when he sees it. Because you have served admirably and well until now, I will assume you to have not absorbed those lessons, rather than having, shall we say, too close an identification remaining with your kinsmen. I will not be generous enough to grant you that benefit of the doubt in the future. Have I made myself clear?"

The colonel swallowed hard, and even though his eyes burned with sour fury, when he spoke it was quietly, obediently. "Yes, sir."

Into this uncomfortable breach, Bao inserted himself. "Lan, it's fine. Really. I'm not under anybody's thumb here, I can think for myself. What the general said is true, I've learned what he had to teach and I'm using it because it makes sense to me. Sure, there's a time and place for leniency, for bein' merciful and forgiving. But right now...and most of the time...I think he's got the right of it."

His second's eyes locked with his, and for a moment he faltered. _You know, don't you? You saw it in my eyes while I was fightin', when I was lookin' down the cliff. That excitement. That unholy delight_.

Once more Hao patted his shoulder, breaking him out of his trance, though it felt a bit forced this time. "You see? He knows what he's doing; you should trust your commanding officer. He is an incredible fighter, soldier, and strategist, the best the empire has seen in many dynasties, I wager. If I am 'using' him, as you seem to believe, it is only for the noblest of ends...and I have no intention of letting him out of my sight until he's given his all for the Son of Heaven. What could be more heroic than this?"

The tiger grinned and let out a booming laugh, even winked as if letting them in on a great joke to mitigate the otherwise draconian nature of his statement. But now the panda did cringe a bit; he didn't like the implication of those words at all, that Hao truly saw him only as a prize he would never let escape until he had served his purpose…

He could see it in Lan Duo's eyes, too, as well as something else which chilled him: pity, and more than a healthy dose of fear. But as Hao turned away to return to the rest of the commanders, loudly and pompously congratulating them for their victory—and asking for the most lurid details of the battle under the guise of dissecting each military maneuver—the panda shook himself and forced such thoughts away. He couldn't let such things distract him, or he would not be the leader, fighter, and hero he was meant to be.

Glancing once more down the ledges of the cliff face toward the valley floor, his eyes not even seeing the bodies anymore, Bao was instead already envisioning the Go board again, planning out his moves well in advance. It was what he had to do, who he had to be. It was the right thing to do. The only fleeting thought to interrupt him, as they headed back to camp and his stomach began to growl, was an idle one of his distant home in Jiangxi, considered absently and almost immediately discarded: _I wonder what Li-Na's makin' for dinner_…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wu Xuan's line about "no better place for hand-to-hand combat" is a Phoebus line from Disney's _Hunchback of Notre Dame_, and in general he is meant to be a Boisterous Bruiser despite having the more slender physique. Qiao Yong was an exercise in contrast, not just with Xuan but with the son he'd never know: I found it absolutely hilarious to make potty-mouthed Tai Lung have a strait-laced father who couldn't bear to sully his mouth with a dirty word; in a lot of respects he's Fix-It Felix to Xuan's Wreck-It Ralph. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the Yangko Dancers is a double reference to both a form of opera which incorporated dance as well as song and to a folk dance which does indeed include a lot of acrobatics, rapid movement, and agile gestures. Since it was originally invented by farmers and laborers as a means to liven up their days and pray to the gods for a good harvest, it also ties into the background of the Qiao family. The snide reference Yong makes to the next Mongol invasion being on "the fourth of Bù Yuè" is a pun on "the fourth of never" (literally translated, the fourth of "no month") because the Chinese name for June, "Liù Yuè", is a near rhyme for it. And the term of address, _huīxià_, means "sir" but is meant for generals and other military men—something Yong and Xuan did count as by being bodyguards and soldiers, but still something of a subtle clue that that "servant" didn't know the proper term because he wasn't what he seemed.
> 
> Yong and Xuan definitely had a Heterosexual Life Partner thing going on, and I hope everyone forgives me for making Tai's father so undeniably heroic in how he defended and saved the Emperor from assassination; I was not trying to say Tai's heroism was In the Blood per se, but instead give him a lineage he could be proud of. After so long doubting and hating himself because he was just a lowly orphan, it only seemed fair.
> 
> Bao, on the other hand, was my attempt to show how badass and incredible a fighter he was, while also displaying how the seeds of his future degeneration into banditry and murder were planted. I bet you thought that wolven swordsman was going to be the source of the _dao_ scar on his face as shown in Chapter 2 of "The Tale of Po and Jia"; but no, that was just a relic of his time as a highwayman I don't ever plan to explain. :P 
> 
> Lei is, again, from Peter the Muggle's "Monkey in the Middle" while Lan Duo is from Luna's "Soaring Dragon, Dancing Phoenix"; after I had said the wolf guard at Shandong Prison had a brother who knew and had served with Bao, and then Luna had Liu Yong say he'd met Bao as a shout-out to me, I decided this meant the guard's brother actually was one of the Half Dozen and Lan Duo was the best (most likable) candidate. Although obviously in my universe he was a soldier rather than a thief or assassin. Hao's line to Bao was of course a reference to Senator Palpatine in _Phantom Menace_, although it wasn't meant to suggest the general was truly as horrific as that...just giving you a chilling hint as to his darker side and how far he was willing to go to achieve his ends. The tiger was not precisely a villain, but he is certainly yet another Well-Intentioned Extremist who had no idea what the consequences of his actions would be. I hope my portrayal of him was neither too condemnatory nor too forgiving.


	3. The Tale of Wu Xuan and Wu Qing

"Now, do you remember what I taught you, _qīn_?"

Mei Ling screwed up her forehead in thought, then assumed a studious expression and posture as she began to recite. "Speak only when spoken to; behave and play nicely with my sisters; only call Wu Qing _fū rén_, _zūnjià_, or _lìngtáng_; and never mention Mama." Relaxing again, her little face twisted in annoyance. "She sure has a lotta rules. Do we _really _have to meet her?"

In spite of himself, and his rather uncharacteristic nervousness, Wu Xuan couldn't help but laugh. "I know, Mei, I know; she's just very touchy about her dignity. And she is your sisters' mother, so she deserves respect. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll accept you without any trouble, and then once you're with your sisters, you won't have to think about it anymore."

The mountain cat cub sighed, for all the world as if she were many more years older than her true age, but then she smiled up at him in trust and devotion and nodded. "Okay, Baba. I promise I'll do my best."

"Good girl." Looking back up again at the polished, richly carved lintel of the door they stood before, and the rest of the beautifully ornamented and lavishly decorated home to which it belonged, Wu Xuan glanced back over his shoulder once, down the steep steps that led up the mountain side—conspicuously empty, since all those who had given him directions gave the place a wide berth—then squared his shoulders and knocked.

After several agonizingly long minutes, he finally heard footsteps on the floor within...they stopped on the other side, and he thought he heard the sound of wind chimes tinkling in the stirring caused by someone's passage...then the door creaked open. And there she stood, just as he remembered her despite being almost a decade older than when he'd last laid eyes on her—tall and willowy, her body of the same slim, svelte contours that had first enchanted him (or at least incited his passion, he had to honestly admit). Clad in rich, gorgeous robes of flawless crimson silk trimmed with gold, she certainly seemed to have gone up in the world...though whether her obvious wealth were inherited from her noble family or obtained by...other means, he had no clue.

As he met the snow leopardess's aquamarine eyes, however, he could see that they had not changed either—still possessed of the same coldness, the same determination, and paradoxically the same fiery passion, a haughty air mingled with a devious slyness suggesting she had viewed and judged all others around her and found them wanting, suitable only for what purposes she could put them to...or manipulate them to. The faintest hint of mockery, a trace of world-weary cynicism, a fierce intelligence, and above all a pragmatism as dismissive and ruthless as it was practical.

Wu Xuan met those eyes...and as he did so, as he felt a familiar mix of fear and desire, wariness and intrigued admiration that he had never thought to feel again even as part of him had longed for it more than anything, he remembered all those years ago, when their paths had first crossed…

_It had, of course, been in the city of Shanghai, that decadent den of iniquity and debauchery, that he had first met Wu Qing. It had been on one of his rare forays away from the capital that had not been devoted to either protecting the royal person or combating some form of rebellion or banditry—seeing as it was one of the few times Chen had allowed him a sabbatical that wasn't simply sending him home to his family in Qinghai for the most important holidays of the year. And of course prim and proper Qiao Yong wouldn't be caught dead in such an immoral, violent, crude and unlawful place. So while the larger snow leopard had parted ways with his best friend to make the long trip back to see his wife and children, Wu Xuan had leapt at the opportunity to finally cut loose and have a bit of naughty, irreverent fun for a change._

_It wasn't that he particularly wanted to wallow in sin or get into the sort of dangerous trouble there was to be found in such a city. But he had become at the very least exasperated by Yong's mother hen tendencies, his determination to protect Xuan from himself and keep him on the straight and narrow, if not outright annoyed—he was a big kitty and could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much!—and whatever the gods or the Son of Heaven said otherwise, he felt life was meant to be lived and enjoyed. _

_If he wanted to get philosophical about it, he could even point to how important it was to keep Yin and Yang in balance—not just in one's emotions and spirit, but in one's actions and activities. To never explore or partake of the darker side of life, to avoid such urges and impulses, to pretend they did not exist and if they were ignored they could never cause harm or evil, was foolish. Far better to face such temptation head-on, to come to know one's enemy so as to be better prepared to overcome it when it truly counted._

_And he wanted to have fun, damnit. What could be wrong with indulging just this once?_

_So that was why after wandering the fascinating streets of the steaming, teeming...fragrant city, not to mention the numerous shops and stalls of its marketplaces (including the clandestine, black sort he wasn't supposed to know about, and the existence of which he somehow was going to forget to report to the Emperor), the snow leopard had found himself in one of the most boisterous, rowdy, notorious gambling dens in Shanghai. _

_There, amidst crowds of cutthroats and thieves, belligerent sailors and wily merchants, drunken soldiers and city officials, he'd spent hour after hour in the humid, opium haze...smoking an ever-refilled pipe of his own and tossing back mug after mug of _choujiu_ to the cheers and excited encouragement of bartenders and patrons alike...while he played countless hands of _pai kow_ and even more frequent rounds of _dai siu_._

_Which was when he first laid eyes on the woman who would change his life and, though he didn't know it then, the history of China for the next four decades._

_It had been at the _pai kow _table when, after checking both his front and rear hands and finalizing his bet, he'd looked up to regard the player who up until that moment had remained hidden in shadow, cloaked in black and with a face-wrap that concealed all features save for those alluring eyes. Right as he'd done so, she had for some inexplicable reason chosen to lower the wrap a few inches and push back her hood just enough so that the flickering lantern light revealed her gender and species. _

_Even through the smoky haze (both that in the room and in his own mind) he had been startled that she was both a woman and a fellow snow leopard...but even more intriguing to him was how truly exotic, beautiful, and unusual she was. The almond shape of those large eyes, the set of her chin and mouth, the tiny smirk which seemed to perpetually turn up the latter's corner as if she never ceased seeing everyone and everything around her as mere playthings for her to use, discard, or at least be entertained by...her voice when she spoke to the banker to set her own wager, a sultry contralto as rich and heady as the fragrances and smoke that filled the air...her accent, which placed her as being from Qinghai as well, though a different region of the province than his own..._

_Fortunately, once the dominoes had been dealt out there was no real skill or strategy involved, which was why being distracted by her beauty didn't keep him from winning. Often it was only a draw, with at least one hand not being higher or lower than the banker's, or with him and another punter splitting the winning hands between them, but often he found himself winning overall. _

_A few losses here and there, but the amount on his cash-string increased slowly but steadily as the evening progressed, something that only made him grin all the more roguishly with suggestively-raised eyebrows at the mysterious spotted beauty. And while at first she seemed resentful or at least annoyed by his victories, over time she seemed to become more and more impressed, admiring, and even enthralled—something he hoped was as much due to his native charm and handsomeness._

_Somehow it didn't surprise him when she eventually bowed out of the game directly and, when another patron had taken her stool, began setting down her coins alongside his dominoes so as to win when he did. He also couldn't fail to notice how whenever she placed her stakes, she always managed to engineer a brush of delicate, softly-furred fingers against the side of his paw. When she spoke to him at last, it only made him want to clasp his paws smugly behind his head. _

"_Well, well. As lucky as he is good-looking. Seems it was my good fortune, too, to choose this night and this establishment to do my gambling." She smiled slowly, suggestively, with far too much knowledge in her eyes._

_All the snow leopard's usual suave demeanor and clever wit deserted him, and while he was fairly certain most of this was due to the alcohol and drugs sapping his mental faculties, at least some of it came just from being confronted by such a confident, bold, competent woman. "Er...yeah. Yeah, I'd have to say so. But I'm even luckier, to meet a smart, beautiful lady like you." **Really, Xuan? That's the best you can come up with? Yong could do better than that, and he doesn't know the meaning of the word 'flirt.' You're slipping.**_

_The snow leopardess chuckled, and he couldn't tell if she was mocking his lack of skill, genuinely flattered, or something in between. "I'll bet you say that to all the girls you hustle in games of chance."_

"_I **never** hustle," he protested in as injured a tone as he could muster. "I beat them fair and square." That was a little better._

_As if to prove it, his companion widened her eyes slightly, then inclined her head a fraction of an inch while lifting her glass from the table in a salute. "So you can play in more ways than one," she murmured. "Remind me never to get in an arm-wrestling match with you."_

_Xuan grinned. "I never tussle with ladies either. At least...not like that."_

_For a moment he thought he'd misstepped, as her eyes glittered darkly in the shadows—she clearly didn't mind his forwardness, and she clearly was an independent sort, was she one of those women who hated having men be superior to them? Or could she just actually **want** to spar with him? But then she smirked. "Really now? I suppose I should be flattered, but you might not want to assume what we of the fairer sex truly want. I've never, shall we say, put much in stock in doing what's expected of me, including by tradition." _

_Before he could ask what she meant by that—there'd been another meaning in her words, one he could sense even through his inebriation that made him rather uneasy—she continued casually. "So if you're not going to 'tussle' with me and you plan to play it straight, does that mean you're not willing to take any more chances?"_

_He narrowed his eyes. "I **never** said that," he said slowly, meaningfully. "Why? What'd you have in mind?"_

_Flicking her eyes down to the table, both to his domino hands and the large stack of coins between his paws, she purred throatily. "Well, since you seem to be doing so well so far, I thought you might want to try a different game. One where there's even more chance involved, and an even greater return." Now she was looking past him, to the silhouettes of players moving around at the _dai siu _tables farther back in the crowded, pungent room. "Interested?" Now the gleam in her gaze was distinctly predatory indeed...even gloatingly so._

_Wu Xuan stared at her for several long moments, trying to judge her, read her, even as his heart began to beat faster and his trousers became incredibly tight. When the banker finally interrupted him to ask for his bet, he shoved in a significant portion of his winnings—and to his delight, when the tiles were turned over, he'd won both the front and rear hands. Collecting the pot with a jaunty swish of his tail, he eyed the ugly looks he was getting from the other players, contemplated the growls and grumbles beginning, and decided her offer wasn't just fun and likely profitable, but incredibly opportune. Withdrawing from the game as innocently as he could, he got to his feet, tossed back the last of his drink, and said challengingly, "You're on."_

_Those eyes practically glowed now._

_Soon enough they were ensconced at the table she'd indicated, inserting themselves easily into the proceedings so that he could begin betting on whichever area of the table struck his fancy. Big, small, even, odd, whatever felt right or seemed appropriate—and while he did lose occasionally, he still won more often, enough that his pile of coins increased at an eye-popping rate. Those on either side of him, a wolf as plastered as he was and a well-dressed pig, didn't seem to mind—probably because, like his female companion, they were able to bet along with him and make a killing—but the others, which included a Siberian bear who had the look of a mercenary or bandit, a cheetah in strangely-styled woolen clothes who was extremely far from home and rather looked worried he'd never accumulate enough for passage back, and a horse that he thought might be another Imperial guardsman, were far less sanguine. In fact as the game continued, they were becoming downright pugnacious._

_Of course none of them could accuse him of cheating; the bear dared to accost the dealer at one point, demanding to check the dice chest to make sure its contents weren't loaded, but once the fox had opened it and let him test their shape and weight to reveal they were legitimate, the mercenary had been forced to back down with an ugly snarl. That didn't stop the others from still eyeing him suspiciously, however, or the snow leopardess with him—and even though she seemed to have no connection to or inside knowledge of the dealer that could explain any guidance for Xuan in how to bet, the rather insufferable grin and the sadistic gleam in her aquamarine eyes only served to infuriate them more. Despite the pleasantly relaxing floating sensation the opium lent to him, and the continued buzz of the _choujiu_, he began to become concerned._

_Finally, after another hour (he thought) during which he lost over half of his winnings, then made it all back and surpassed it through a series of exceptional bets—a single dice, a dice combo, a three-dice total, and an all—the snow leopard turned to the spotted feline beside him. "This has been amazing," he whispered, "and don't think I haven't enjoyed every moment of it, but don't ya think we should cut our losses and run? We've made more than enough, and I don't think this crowd can handle any more wins like that last one. Besides, I doubt my luck can hold out much longer."_

"_Now where's your sense of adventure? I thought you had nerves of steel, not to mention something a bit further south. I thought you were exactly the sort of man a girl like me enjoys. A risk-taker. One who knew how to have fun and was willing to cross a few lines, dirty his paws a bit, if it meant letting loose and having the time of his life. Was I wrong?" Her words, murmured breathily in his ear until they made the hairs there stand on end, alternately shifted between accusing and enticing, mocking and imploring. He felt his knees grow weak and something else become more solid than his scimitar hilt._

"_One more, big boy. Just one more for the whole pot. Make this night go out with a bang and not a whimper, hmm? If you do...I promise I'll make it worth your while."_

_That was it, he was lost. Putting on his most cocky, smug grin, Wu Xuan shoved all his coins into two areas of the table—that for the double fives, and that for a single three. **Lucky thirteen**. His heart thudded in his chest, and his mind was dazed and delirious with more than just the drugs and drink._

_Everyone stared at him, some in disbelief, some in fury, and some in heady excitement. His bet wasn't the most impossible in the game, either in terms of odds or the types of rolls involved (the specific triple all he'd managed to roll, and one of the three-dice totals, had been that), but it was pretty damn close, and when adding in just how much he was wagering…_

_The dice chest sent out its familiar rattle into the eye-searing, musky air as the fox shook it briskly in his paw. _"Sic bo, dai siu_!" The lid opened and the three bone cubes rolled and bounced across the table...all eyes watched them intently, every breath was held… A five. Another five! He'd already doubled his winnings, and would at least break even if the last die went against him… For a moment the final one seemed to balance precariously on one edge, between five, one, and three—and then it fell squarely onto the last of these._

_For a very long moment no one moved or spoke. Then as his companion began gathering in the stunning amount of coins from the dealer (since Xuan was still stunned immobile), the bear surged to his feet with a rancid oath, almost seeming to swell in his clothes. "That is IT! No more! Am not caring if there be no cheating—you are too lucky to let live!'" And shoving the table aside, he leaped toward the beige cat._

_Somehow the snow leopardess moved so rapidly that she succeeded in dumping the last of the loose coins into the pouches she had handy, shoved them and the cash-strings into Xuan's startled paws, and ducked down low all before the bear reached him—so that when the violent ursine was still bringing his claws to bear, she had twisted with agile dexterity to slam her booted foot right into his gut. The force behind that kick had to be phenomenal, for despite his weight and momentum, the bear flew backwards, smashing apart the next _dai siu _table and sending its contents flying, much to the annoyance and fury of its players who also rose to join the ensuing brawl._

_But even as he was shoving the money away for safekeeping and balling his fists for combat, Xuan couldn't stop staring at the bear where he lay unmoving in the splintered wreckage of the table—not because he was unconscious or woozy, but because of the blood soaking his abdomen and pouring in fatal amounts onto the floor from the wound made by the stiletto his companion had had concealed in her boot tip._

_Then there was no time for thought, even if his sluggish mind could manage any, for the horse from his game and a pair of bulls from the other table were coming at him, and it was all he could do to stay alive. Somehow, even with as slow as his reaction time was, the snow leopard was able to hold his own—kicking one of the bulls so he, too, doubled over, grasping his horns and doing a backflip to land behind him so as to leave the incoming horse unable to stop before ramming into those sharp curves of bone and keratin, and then whirling to punch the other bull in the jaw and send him smashing into the wall. Another kick, another punch, a swift jerk of his tail before an incoming dhole could grab it and yank him to a halt, and then all was lost in a writhing, screaming, roaring, bellowing mass of fighters struggling in the darkened interior._

_How long he fought he didn't know; whether he killed any of his opponents, he also didn't know—he thought he was pulling his punches, aiming for non-vital areas, only knocking them out or otherwise removed from the fight, but he couldn't be sure, and even those he didn't strike with full force could still have been killed or mortally injured by broken glass and wood, where their heads struck, or simply by those they fell upon. What he did know was that, as he caught glimpses of the snow leopardess as she darted in and out of the shadowy forms, she didn't seem particularly interested in escaping or getting to safety, and she **did** seem quite interested in causing as much damage and death as possible._

_Men (and a few women, too) were falling like mown grass wherever he looked—throats crushed by surgical punches with carefully-curled fingers, groins kneed, bellies slugged so that their owners spewed their contents to add to the disgusting scents of the place. Knife blades flashed in the dark—not just the one in her boot, but one she held secreted in one paw—severing tendons and limbs, slipping deftly beneath ribs, flung to unerringly strike the heart or impale a body to the post behind it before she pulled it free to seek another target. _

_Her other paw held a whip he hadn't even seen coiled at her waist, and she used it with impeccable skill to wrap around one combatant after another...catching a wrist before it could bring a bottle down on her scalp and making the tiger strike another drunkard beside him instead...latching onto an ankle and jerking to send that fellow toppling on his back...lashing with deadly accuracy to cut open chests, chins, eyebrows...twisting tightly around a langur's throat until he collapsed to his knees, gasping desperately as his face turned blue…_

_It terrified him, it appalled him...yet on some level, it was still thrilling._

_Shaking himself violently to dismiss such traitorous thoughts, Xuan caught a lion's incoming paw before it could slash his cheek, drove his knee into the bigger cat's midsection, then sent him flipping up over his hip while he was still roaring indignantly. Suddenly he could see a gap through the crowd that led straight toward the entrance, and without thinking he reached out and caught the leopardess's arm. Just as instinctively she wrenched free and brought up her dagger, but before she could stab him by mistake he cried out in protest. When her eyes met his and she registered his identity, he swallowed hard but swiftly jerked his head toward the door. "C'mon, let's get out of here! We can't kill all of 'em, but they'll sure as hell kill us if we stay!"_

_The arch look she gave him, contemptuous, amused, and calculating, seemed to take issue with both of his conclusions, but without a word of protest she sent one last kick at a pig's rump to send him toppling off a table onto a sheep, then followed him with alacrity. As they wound their way through the crowd and made it to the door, she stopped, reached down to loosen several cash-strings and money pouches from her belt, then whistled sharp and high to cut through the noise before tossing them back toward the _dai siu _tables. "Here! If that's all you want, keep it, and with my fervent wishes that you live in even more interesting times than these! Drinks are on me!"_

_Unsurprisingly, the rioters soon dissolved into a different sort of free-for-all as they all dove for the falling coins and began punching, kicking, and struggling with each other over the winnings instead, letting the pair of them escape the gambling hall unscathed; as he glanced back once, Xuan thought he caught sight of the cheetah from his game snatching up a pair of bulging sacks before beating a hasty retreat toward a hole that had been broken through one of the side walls, and for some reason he felt relieved, and pleased. **Hope I was right, kid, and you use that to make it home safe.**_

_They ran down the street as best they could, pushing and shoving their way through the throngs that made it packed even this time of night as they worked to put as much distance as possible between themselves and whatever pursuit there might be. Only when they broke through to a more sparsely crowded lane; ducked down several pitch-black alleys where he cried out as he stumbled over crates, barrels, and other unseen obstacles; and finally made it out into a lantern-lit street lined with the colorful furled awnings of various stores that had closed for the night, did his companion bring them to a halt. He had no idea where they were, but she seemed to have knowledge of the area, or was simply unconcerned by being lost. Instead she stopped, spread her arms so she could stretch luxuriously beneath what little starlight could filter down through the city's cover of smoke and sea fog, and let out a low, wicked little laugh._

_Xuan stared at her in wordless incomprehension for several very long moments; had she lost her mind, was it the adrenaline rush of combat that had not yet left her, or did she actually find what had just happened funny? And yet...the longer he thought about it...the more he considered what insanely phenomenal luck had enabled him to pull off so many incredible wins in a row—let alone escape the incipient beating and bloodbath afterward!—and how exciting it had been to fight like that once he knew she had his back and he'd be able to get out with his money, his pride, and his reputation intact...the more he saw the humor in it, and he started laughing too._

_After several more minutes of this, he leaned against a rickshaw that stood silent beside the nearest building and wiped at his eyes before peering at her closely, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief turning once more to admiration. "That...was either the single bravest thing I've ever seen outside a battlefield...or the craziest!"_

_For a brief moment those blue-green eyes flickered again with a smoldering darkness and a hidden resentment, as if he had struck a nerve with his choice of words, but then she was all purrs and smiles once again. Tossing her knife end over end several times before sheathing it, then coiling her whip once more at her waist, she shrugged and crossed her arms nonchalantly. "Is there really a difference? Many people think anyone who would willingly go to war, or even shed blood at all, is insane; and I believe I've read somewhere or other that battle is where men go mad, even if they aren't actual berserkers." She paused and then grinned—rather savagely, he thought. "But thank you. You didn't do too badly yourself, stud. Maybe we should try it again sometime?"_

_Xuan chuckled, even as inwardly he shuddered at the prospect; he didn't think he wanted to experience anything like that again, especially if it made him feel so ambivalent, yet he couldn't deny part of him would enjoy fighting at her side once again. **Just...not against disgruntled drunks or innocent civilians. Something more glorious and honorable.**_

_Quickly changing the subject, he burst out, "I can't believe the way you were fighting back there, though...some of those moves you used, how fast you were, how skilled you were with your weapons—where'd you learn to fight like that?" He honestly wanted to know, but he had the feeling she wouldn't answer him and so his question would act as a sort of test...since he was fairly certain only bounty hunters and others of even less savory occupations used whips or concealed knives in such a manner._

_True to his guess, she smirked and rolled her shoulders in a casual shrug. "Oh, a little here, a little there. I'm sure you know there aren't many who would teach or train women in combat at all, let alone that kind, so I had to find my instructors and education wherever and whenever I could…"_

_When no more seemed to be forthcoming, he tried another tack. "You surprised me another way, too."_

"_Oh?"_

_Sheepishly he rubbed at the back of his neck. "The way you just...gave up a bunch of your money like that. After how you pushed me to keep playing and winning, and the way you fought, I didn't think you'd ever let it go."_

_Instead of being insulted by the implication, she actually seemed to take it as a compliment—throwing her head back and laughing again, the snow leopardess smirked in a distinctly cruel and heartless fashion. "I certainly didn't do it out of any sense of altruism, if that's what you were thinking! What better way was there to get them off our trail, give us the chance to retreat to safety so we could live to fight and win another day? Besides…" _

_The wickedness left her face and voice, shifting to a cunning thoughtfulness that bespoke great intelligence and insight. "Those who made it out of there alive, and who can recall anything after the booze and opium wear off, will remember my generosity. They'll know I'm willing to cut a little slack if it will earn me what I want, and that I'll reward those who help me out of a tight spot. That will buy me loyalty—if not from them, then from those who later hear about it when the story spreads."_

_Slowly he shook his head; he didn't know whether to be upset by such manipulative ruthlessness, or in awe of its extreme practicality. "You've got a point. Still...I don't know how much of that was yours, and how much was mine. I'll pay you back, I promise."_

_She winked. "Make it your weight in gold, and we'll call it even." He laughed, although the covetous and possessive look in her eyes made him a bit worried it hadn't been a joke after all._

"_Actually, I seem to recall you promising something else back there," Xuan said slowly, a sultry and aroused purr beginning in his throat and echoing down into his chest. "Don't you owe me that as well?" He took a step toward her, grinning widely._

_Looking up from beneath her lowered lids, she returned his smile just as suggestively. "I did. And I suppose I do." Sashaying her hips, she closed the last of the distance between them and pressed up against him, grinding hard and firmly, and he couldn't hold back the moan as his lust burned to its most fiery intensity yet._

_He knew there was a darkness in her...and that what darkness there was in him was responding to it, although he hoped more to the thrill of combat and illicit danger and not the actual carnage and cruel death. But everyone had darkness in them, he reminded himself again desperately—it was a part of life, a decree of the gods, one half of the duality of existence. It was not evil, it simply required balance to be maintained, if he showed her his own goodness and nobility he could strengthen and bolster hers too. There was nothing wrong in indulging a little with her, or so he convinced himself...she was exciting, different, passionate, strong...and he wanted her, **gods** how he wanted her…_

_Needless to say she knew he did and could feel it, too, but instead of embarrassment it was arousal that flushed his cheeks. Her eyes widened briefly, something that only made him smirk all the more proudly, and then she licked her lips and purred in turn. "Well, well. Talented in so many ways, I see...in that case, how could I refuse? And as...luck...would have it..." She paused and smiled sardonically, and he knew she wasn't simply referring to their earlier gambling but also the fact she knew the city well and had in fact brought him precisely where she'd wanted to. "...I have a room I'm renting over a laundress's, and it's right nearby."_

"_Convenient," he noted, and it wasn't just the nearness he meant. Bringing his large paws up to catch both sides of her narrow, shapely jaw, his thumbs rubbing through the soft fur of her cheeks, he kissed her...long, slow, explosive in its passion as their lips met and he tasted her for the first time. His eyes closed, his tail lashed furiously, and his chest heaved as their muzzles worked together with a carnal need that threatened to devour them both._

_Coming up for air, he gazed at her in the shadows, his purr deepening to a hungry growl. "My name's Wu Xuan," he panted...almost not recognizing his own voice as it was lost to an octave-drop on the edge of uncivilized, animalistic lack of control._

"_Qing," she whispered as she started drawing him back with her, down the street toward where her bed could be found, never letting their bodies come apart for more than a moment, more than an inch or two. "I am Wu Qing."_

"Xuan?" The voice was cold, harsh, laced with a hint of mockery but also sardonic amusement. "Were you planning to come inside to have dinner with me and meet your daughters, or were you going to remain on the stoop all day? I may not be in the trade any longer, but my time _is _still valuable to me."

The snow leopard felt himself turn a brighter, deeper red than he ever had in his life, so much blood rushing up his neck and into his face he felt faint for a few moments and he knew he could feel the heat radiating out from his fur; he was surprised it wasn't sizzling. How could he have been thinking such things, _feeling_ such things, when he was a married man now? When _Mei Ling_ was right beside him, even if she had no inkling why her father was acting so strangely?

Swiftly he cleared his throat, cut off the odd strangled sound that tried to come out, and finally found his voice. "I am...so sorry. It's just...it's been so many years, and you look so, so…" Swallowing, he forced a smile onto his face and bowed deeply. "You look wonderful, Wu Qing. It's so good to see you again."

If she knew he was lying, or at least concealing some of the truth—for while he couldn't deny she was just as beautiful as that night in Shanghai if not even more so, and that it was good to know she was well, the feelings she brought up in him and how they conflicted with and contradicted those he had for Xu Mei kept from this being a completely uncomplicated meeting—Wu Qing gave no sign of it. She only bowed her head in acknowledgement, then smiled. "Thank you. In that case, welcome to my home."

Stepping aside to let them in, she gazed down at Mei Ling; he could not begin to guess what the rapid flicker of emotions in her eyes meant or added up to, but in the end she seemed to settle on a distant, wintry, but vaguely friendly smile. "And this must be your other daughter. She is indeed as lovely as you said in your letters."

Blushing too, Mei Ling bowed even deeper than he had, although he could see she was as disturbed and made uneasy by the woman as he was. "Thank you, _lìngtáng_."

"And so mannerly, too," Qing murmured as she turned and began leading them down the hallway.

As they passed through the spacious corridor with its sumptuous furnishings and artistry, and he did his level best to keep his eyes away from those hips which seemed incapable of shifting in any manner other than to inflame a man's desires, Wu Xuan occupied himself by instead thinking about what had happened after their fateful meeting, both the immediate results and those of the last nine years.

Needless to say, when he'd awoken the next morning to find himself in the rented bed of the strong-willed, fiendishly clever, but dark-hearted woman he'd met the night before, both of them as naked as the day they were born and his body, unfortunately, still quite ready for a repeat performance, it hadn't just been because of the most painful, horrible hangover headache he'd ever suffered, or the similar lingering aftereffects of the opium, that he had groaned and put a paw to his forehead. _What in the gods' names was I thinking?!_

Of course he'd known that was precisely the point, he hadn't been thinking—couldn't do so while under the influence of such potent substances, but he'd also been so enamored of her irreverent charm and wily ways; of the lithe grace of her body, the incredible mastery of her fighting skills, and the heady mix of excitement, passion, and naughtiness that he felt in her company; that he might not have been proof against her even had he been completely clear-headed. She'd pushed his buttons in all the right (and wrong) ways, played on his ego and pride, challenged him and manipulated him, until he'd been ripe for the plucking, perfectly held in her paw...in more ways than one...to be kneaded, shaped, and used.

Not that he thought she was evil incarnate; he refused to believe he could have fallen prey to such as that. He was stronger than that, _better_ than that! No, she was just a girl with a past, a femme fatale of the highest order, a clever and sophisticated woman who had shown him a good time...but whom he had no idea if he could trust.

And even if he could, he knew next to nothing about her, and he certainly could not afford to be drawn into whatever lifestyle she led, turn a blind eye to whatever plans she might have in store or worse be forced to aid and abet her in them. Not when he was a fine, upstanding citizen of the empire, an honorable and loyal Imperial guardsman and bodyguard who would lose his position, his heroism, everything, the minute such a connection was discovered in his private life. Even if he weren't worried about that, even if he were a simple farmer or a scholar like his father had wanted, he would not care to associate with such a person on a regular basis. He was just too lawfully-minded for that.

When he'd managed to disengage from Qing and slip out of bed so as to gather and don his clothes, he'd discovered a small black book on the plain wooden table near the window, one marked with the hanzi for her name (in blood-red ink, no less)...and after he'd hastily checked to be certain she still slept, he'd dared to look inside. And what he'd found had instantly quelled any further arousal in his body, made it quite easy to get dressed and flee the laundress's without a backward glance, a final word of parting, or anything except a frisson of fear and a determination to get as far away from the woman as possible.

It had been a list of names, dates, locations...and prices, fees for services rendered. Several of the names he recognized as those of nobles back in Beijing who had died under rather mysterious circumstances, but even if they'd all meant nothing to him, the notations made regarding secret doors, night watches, guard movements, and certain deadly substances would have told him. She was an assassin.

It wasn't that killing itself was anathema to him; as both a warrior in the army and a fighter who was meant to guard the Emperor's person he was quite familiar with it, and while he never wished to do it on a regular basis—especially not to the point it became second nature, that he became numb to death or even began to enjoy it—he knew that often violence was the only answer...and he would commit it to protect those he loved, cherished, and honored.

Nor was it the specific way in which assassins carried out their work. He couldn't deny he found the idea of slipping into someone's palace or home, let alone their bedchamber, so as to kill them quietly in the dark or place something poisonous in their food to be rather craven—if you were going to kill someone, if there was no other choice, he found it far more brave, or at least more honest, to both give your victim a fighting chance to defend themselves and to let them look you in the eyes...to let them know why you were doing this, and to accept in your soul that you were taking the life of the person in front of you. But he also couldn't deny that quite often the use of an assassin was a more efficient and safer way to deal with someone who had become a problem—certainly cleaner, faster, and with less death and suffering involved than a lengthy siege or a protracted war.

And it wasn't even the fact assassins worked for money rather than honor, loyalty, or the courage of their own convictions and principles; for while he didn't find mercenaries particularly trustworthy or noble, and knew that in many cases their loyalty extended only as far as the contents of their coffers—a good number of emperors of past dynasties had discovered this to their chagrin when a rival claimant for the throne, a rebellious noble, or even an invading warlord had been able to pay their mercenaries more than they could, a state of affairs that had led to their betrayal and deaths—he knew of other truly honorable sorts, warrior monks of Tibet or wandering fighters from the east known as _ronin_, who truly served those who hired them and could not be swayed by other monetary offers if they found the cause just.

No, it was all of these facts put together, plus one further thing, that made him fear assassins and wish nothing to do with them...or at least, this particular one. It was what he had seen in her eyes, heard in her voice, and watched in her strangely hypnotic but faintly horrific dance of blades, whip, and hand-to-hand combat.

It was that indeed, he had detected not only enjoyment in what she did, but malice...vindictiveness...an unholy delight and even a rather diabolical mischief in those cold eyes. He didn't know if it was merely the adrenaline rush and sense of power that came when in the midst of such violence, if she'd had particular contempt for those gamblers (or people like them)...or if it was _death itself_, the manner of it, the myriad means by which it could be brought about, even its simple nature and existence, that pleased her.

Whatever it was, knowing such a thing could be found in her heart and soul, along with her being an assassin, terrified him. At the same time, deep down within...part of him still found it alluring, or at least fascinating, like watching a massive battle from above and beyond, or witnessing the terrible but oddly beautiful way a great storm could wreak havoc on a city or a coastline. And that terrified him most of all.

He'd cut his vacation short, fled back to the capital almost literally with his tail between his legs, and had confided in no one what had happened to him in Shanghai—not even Yong when he returned. And after the initial confusion and curiosity; the wry jokes and teasing banter from his fellow bodyguards that had turned slowly to disquiet and serious concern after his ashen looks, reticent grunts, and cold rebukes had convinced them something truly upsetting had occurred which he absolutely refused to discuss; after all this, he had been left in blissful peace.

Life at the palace had settled back into normalcy; training had resumed, which he had thrown himself into with a will; he and Yong had fallen back into their usual comradely interactions. All had seemed to be as it was, his sowing of wild oats had seemed to leave no lasting consequences, his brief foray into the darker side of life could be forgotten and dismissed. He'd begun to let his worries go, to breathe easier.

And then, three months after his return from Shanghai, he'd received the letter.

Wu Xuan slowly shook his head. It had seemed like something out of a story, or a nightmare come to life. But if there was even a slight chance it could be the truth, he was duty-bound to honor his responsibilities. And as if she had known he might doubt her word, might believe this to be a hoax meant to ensnare him and a bit of blackmail to compel obedience—whether she knew he'd discovered her profession or was simply savvy enough to guess how this sort of situation would look to anyone without proof, he didn't know—Wu Qing had included a carefully padded vial (of blood, or something of a personal, feminine nature, he never bothered to ask) and a note from one of the most respected and famous physicians in Jiangsu. It all seemed to be in order, the handwriting was authentic as was the doctor's seal, and he even spoke to the palace physician who, after swearing to secrecy and being paid a substantial sum, had corroborated his colleague's findings.

The snow leopardess was with child. He was going to be a father.

Of course there had been no question of what he would do. Even if he didn't fear her exposing him to the entire court...to his family...or that she might make her way to the capital and murder him in his bed for refusing to aid her, for leaving her in the lurch when she had no means of continuing her work in her condition or raising children after their birth, he would have done it because it was the right thing to do. Quietly, making certain none of the usual gossips or court toadies had any way of listening in or otherwise spying upon him, he arranged a meeting with his Emperor and confessed all.

To his extreme gratitude and tearful relief, Chen had understood immediately, even sympathized deeply—not that he'd ever had to experience the same thing, since his wife was well aware of his harem and she also knew of his other children who, while illegitimate, were otherwise taken care of and provided for, but he certainly understood how such a thing would be considered scandalous by anyone who sought to bring censure and opprobrium on his reign, to bring down anyone even associated with him so that their guilt would accrue to the throne...by anyone who had never been in such a position themselves.

The tiger had magnanimously agreed to help him work through clandestine channels, assumed names, go-betweens and anonymous couriers, alternate bankers unconnected with the crown or the Imperial Guards' salaries but who could still be unimpeachably trusted. Whatever portion of his earnings would be needed to aid Wu Qing during her pregnancy, and then provide for her and the children, would be granted and delivered as long as he had need of it.

Needless to say, Xuan had written a carefully-worded letter in return, to be borne to her in the same manner as these funds, apologizing profusely both for leaving in the manner that he had and for putting her in the family way. He had explained about the special stipend he would provide her for as long as she needed it, then gone on to say that while he had enjoyed meeting her and their time spent together, he did not think they could or should see each other again—not because he had any animus against her but because (as he would have told her had he not been out of it at the time) he could not afford to have any in Chen's court distrust or reject him, whether for having children out of wedlock or for doing so with one in her line of work.

He'd been certain she would respond in fury, at the impugning of her honor and trustworthiness if nothing else. But to his surprise she had said she understood. That she had guessed his profession in turn from his trousers and bracers (and that when she had made discreet inquiries in the capital for one of his name and species, it had been confirmed, which was how she'd been able to contact him in the first place), had hoped they could still work it out through infrequent meetings, or perhaps even having her be put on Chen's retainer as an official assassin for those moments and individuals when the Son of Heaven had no other recourse.

(She made mention of even wishing to bring honor and glory to the assassin's trade through such recognition, lifting it out of the shadows and helping to codify its rules and practices into something more open and acceptable to all; he didn't know if this was a tissue of lies meant to obfuscate some more nebulous and twisted intention or an impossibly idealistic and out-of-character dream she truly believed in, but he had to admit if it could be done it was a worthy and laudable goal.)

In any event she had ended the letter by repeating she understood, that she would remember their time together fondly (and naughtily), but that she appreciated the money he would be sending and if things ever changed, if he wished to meet her again or their children, to simply send word.

He didn't know what to think, the letter had seemed too good to be true, but until she gave him leave to think otherwise he'd decided to believe it. Despite this, the scare he'd had had another beneficial effect on his life—namely, it inspired him to settle down and find a wife. Partly because (although it galled him to be influenced by such an argument at all) he would need to bring in further income if he expected to keep supporting Wu Qing and her offspring, but mostly because coming that close to losing everything because of one ill-advised night of passion made him want more than ever to do the mature thing, marry a good woman, provide his family with heirs...and most of all, find real love and happiness.

Luckily for him he had met her at the Emperor's birthday celebration that year, daughter of a prestigious and noble family of Kunlun Shan—certainly more than well-off enough to satisfy his family and his own needs, as well as respected, praised, and admired enough to satisfy his own sense of virtue and honor. He knew his parents would approve the match (and he was right), but just as importantly to him, he found her to be the most beautiful, kind, and sweet-natured woman he had ever encountered. She was well-educated and sophisticated, intelligent and insightful, and she made him want to be a better man for her.

At the same time she had a strength to her, a core of iron that while not apparent on the surface could not be denied. He knew she would raise a fine and well-ordered family, that she was his equal in every way that counted and in many ways his superior. It didn't take long at all, throughout the year-long courtship while their two families hammered out all the details of dowry and lineage, wedding gifts exchanged and auspicious portents consulted in the heavens, for him to fall deeply in love with his Xu Mei.

And if he had needed any further confirmation that she was the one he was meant to spend the rest of his life with, there was the fact he had of course told her the truth about Wu Qing and the children he had never met but would always support, as he would not hide such a thing from her. Not only had she listened with sympathy, understood that it was one mistake made before they had met which he regretted deeply but was doing all he could to mitigate, and forgiven him, she had even agreed to keep it secret from her family so as not to tarnish his image and ruin the union.

The mountain cat had been there for him ever since—through the short but terrible war with the Huns, the loss of his best friend in battle that had nearly broken him, and having to bear away Qiao Jian's infant son to a better place where he could be raised with the support, education, and love she could not give him, where he could hopefully be raised in the same warrior spirit and heroic bravery as Yong had demonstrated to the very end. She had given him his most precious and beloved gift of all in his daughter Mei Ling, the one he knew would eventually call him away from Beijing and into retirement simply so he could never leave her side, could watch her grow...and, if he judged her correctly, train her in the same fighting skills he possessed.

And when Wu Qing had contacted him again, after seven years of silence save for brief wishes for good fortune on the holidays and gifts at Dongzhi, to express very belated condolences for his loss and suggest that he might wish to come visit at last and meet her three daughters now that she had a secure, stable, well-appointed home for them, Xu Mei had even supported him in making the journey. Even though she had to wonder whether any feelings remained between them which might be rekindled. Whether she could trust them alone together. Whether she could trust at all, considering she knew what sort of woman Qing had been back then, what she had done.

He loved her more than ever for granting this bequest, and he had sworn that whatever it took, whatever he might think or feel upon meeting the snow leopardess again, she would have no cause for doubt or alarm. That he would remain loyal forever. And of course he would allow no harm to come to Mei Ling! Besides...even with the way the people of Qing's village had shown such fear and disquiet when directing him to her dwelling, he could not think there was reason to dread.

In the nearly ten years since he had last laid eyes on her, he had not heard of any terrible atrocities which she could have committed, any truly heinous assassinations which sounded like her handiwork, and her letters had all been cordial and pleasant as could be, if often including brief suggestive comments and jokes here and there to make him laugh even as they also made him uncomfortable. Perhaps she had changed over the years, perhaps she was no longer an assassin at all thanks to having a family of her own to raise, or even if she was, perhaps she had simply lost that darkness he had been so wary of.

Now that he was here, though...now that he had seen that look in her eyes, heard that tone in her voice, he had to wonder if he had only been fooling himself, if Xu Mei had been right...

Snapping out of his reverie, Xuan looked up to discover that the snow leopardess was not leading them to a dining room in the house's interior, but along a covered passageway with blue slate roof tiles and one wall consisting of alternating pillars and intricate lattices. Through the sunlit openings in it he could catch glimpses of what looked to be quite the expensive and lavish gardens, occupying the central courtyard of the house. He was about to question why she was taking them here first instead of eating, and suggest with his usual sardonic wit that she didn't need to show off her riches for them, when he heard the sound of childish voices and the occasional giggle floating to him from beyond the last pillar—and he understood.

Coming around the stone support, the beige-furred feline stepped out into the mountain sunlight, where a small set of steps led down into the shallow basin, and in spite of himself he had to take a breath at the amazing beauty which lay revealed before him. Everywhere he looked, botanical wonders could be found: earthen paths and crushed stone lanes twisted and wound in interconnecting patterns surrounding massive plots planted with profusions of flowers that filled the air with a heady mix of fragrances.

Several ponds and one much larger lake, fed by various streams that burbled over stones and poured in soothing, shimmering waterfalls, were surrounded by gnarled peach trees, rustling ginkgos, and deeply-bowed willows trailing their fronds in the water. A beautifully-carved bridge led from one side of the lake to the other, while a smaller span connected to an isolated island covered with the weirdly-twisted shapes of lake tai rocks. Along the outer wall of the garden rose towering pines and bamboo, interspersed with plum trees, while stone rockpiles and fountains lay between the various flower beds.

To one side, as they descended into the garden and headed toward another island of rock reached by stepping stones that led across a channel, Xuan spied the source of the sounds he'd heard from the walk. On the bank alongside the flowing water, three girlish figures were arrayed, each involved in an activity of her own but each looking up as they approached. One was performing endless pirouettes, backbends, and acrobatic leaps to entertain herself while giggling and laughing gaily; the second sat beneath the sheltering boughs of a willow tree, apparently intent on a slim volume she held in her lap although her bored expression suggested she wasn't truly that interested; and the third rose from where she'd been kneeling by the water's edge to turn and face them, a splash coming from behind her as she casually tossed the rock she'd been holding. It just missed the family of wading birds swimming there, producing an impressively vociferous series of squawks, quacks, and cries, and the snow leopard blinked—had that truly been an unfortunate accident, or had she actually been _aiming_ for the avians?

"Girls!" Wu Qing's voice was peremptory, firm, and authoritative. "Come here and stand properly. It is time to meet your honored father." A tiny half-second pause. "And your half-sister."

The agile, rather hyperactive girl grinned, performing a series of handsprings and cartwheels as if she was even more inspired to show off for his amusement and approval. As she reached the final move and landed with feet planted firmly and arms spread wide, her beaming grin suddenly turned to a shocked gasp and a shriek of rather adorable outrage as her rock-throwing sister casually and without warning gave her a deliberate shove, sending her toppling over—luckily in the soft grass, not on the rocky path. "Hey! Xiu, that was _mean_!"

For a moment a very calculating, even scheming, look crossed her small, elfin face, and then those cold blue eyes twinkled with some emotion at last, even if it was mischief and a trace of scorn. "You need to do better than that, Jia. Think fast on your feet, or you'll soon be knocked off them. Or _worse_. Isn't that right, Mother?" There was an odd catch in her voice as she said this last, and he was startled how quickly her expression changed to one of eagerness, even a hint of desperation, how her eyes were upturned in silent pleading.

When he turned back to look at Qing, he was even more troubled to see a small smile of satisfaction on the leopardess's lips. "Yes…yes, very good, Xiu. Keep such things in mind, continue to apply what you've learned in such a manner, and one day you might be as skilled and talented as I am." She immediately followed this rather pompous and cruel statement up with a merry laugh to suggest it had only been a joke; but as she summoned her daughters closer with a wave of a paw, he thought he saw a gleam in her eyes that suggested she'd been quite serious…

Soon enough the three were arrayed before them; the eldest, Xiu, struck a pose of perfect propriety, giving him an honor-bow such as was reserved only for the heads of extremely wealthy and respected households, and while the smile she gave him seemed genuine enough, there was still an intelligence and a constant, searching introspection in her gaze to be faintly unnerving. The middle child, who had put away her book (he saw now from the hanzi on its cover that it was, to his startlement, a copy of _The Art of War_), was named Chun, and although she had an air of gravity and maturity about her despite her tender years, the small smile she gave him melted his heart; he could see in her green eyes the first stirrings of affection already.

And Jia? She seemed fit to be tied, barely able to keep standing still in one place, and when at last Qing sighed and gestured it was allowed, she leaped forward—wrapping her arms tightly around his legs to give him a clinging, adoring hug.

"Baba! It's so good to meet you at last!" Even as she held on tightly, as if she were a leech that would never let go, she glanced to his side where Mei Ling stood watching, shy with uncertainty and seeming unsure how to react to these three very different siblings, and her smile grew if anything even brighter. "And you, too, _ā mèi_!" Her violet eyes were winsome—perhaps with amusement at the inadvertent pun made on her sister's name? "We've been waiting _so_ long to meet you both!"

Suddenly much of the trepidation and worry left him, for as if her actions had been a signal, Jia's siblings approached as well, Xiu to offer him a much more sedate and diffident embrace, Chun to take Mei's hands and squeeze them as she murmured something that made her half-sister smile...and somehow, he had a feeling he'd been wrong. That things would turn out just fine after all.

After the embraces, greetings, and introductions had ended, Xuan stood back up and reached into the pack he had brought with him. "Now girls, since your mother has told me so much about you, and I have a lot of lost time to make up for, I decided to bring you some gifts."

Predictably, Jia let out a squeal of excitement and clapped her paws in delight while Chun remained much more sedate and calm, although he thought she seemed interested. Xiu was...difficult to read, hovering somewhere between bored and intrigued, as if very skeptical but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

First he produced a well-made, expensively-bound book which he placed reverently in Jia's hands; the volume was nearly as large as her whole torso, but she braced herself and held it up with surprising strength so she could gaze at the lettering inked on its cover. She frowned, brow furrowing cutely in confusion. "Baba? I...I can't read this…" She sounded deeply ashamed of herself, and her gaze flicked worriedly to her mother.

The snow leopard laughed. "Of course you can't, _xiǎo jiāhuo_, but it's not because you aren't a good enough reader. It's not in Mandarin, but a language from far away to the west. That book belonged to one of _shèngjià_'s most respected generals, and he in turn received it from a merchant who traveled across the Gobi and the Taklamakan to bring it here in trade. Open it up."

She did so, with a slight struggle, and her eyes widened at what was inside. "Oh! Look at all the pictures! And the maps…" Excitement, awe, a dawning of knowledge all appeared in her violet eyes, and he felt his heart swell in his chest as he found he'd been right about her.

"That's right. It's a book of history and culture, and I hope it will inspire you to study, learn about, and admire all the world that lies out there to explore." Again he reached into his pack and brought out a rectangular object, but this was one was smaller and narrower, a finely-polished and lacquered box of cherry wood adorned with curlicues and vines. "Chun, your mother tells me you, too, are interested in education, and that you also have a hand at artistry. I am already teaching my Mei Ling the art of calligraphy…" He smiled down at the mountain cat, who blushed faintly. "...but for you I have a watercolor set. Note the exquisite craftsmanship."

Qing's middle daughter also furrowed her brow intently as she examined her gift, and after peering at the pens, inks, and paints within, she paused to examine the hanzi characters etched into the wood of the lid. "What's this, _zūnshàng_?"

"The personal seal of the artist in whose style they are fashioned," Xuan smiled as he thought of the bespectacled raccoon dog in question, who had visited the Imperial court to furnish the palace personally with a number of his sketches and paintings—as well as, he'd added humorously, to find out if the Emperor was anything like the near namesake artist and kung fu warrior who was his close friend. "Wei-Shan."

Chun was looking at him a bit blankly, but a gasp from behind him made him turn and look—just in time to see the look of irritation Qing had been wearing (though whether for this gift or Jia's, he didn't know) turn into one of recognition and, surprisingly, respect. "Truly? I knew you were well-off, Xuan, but…" Glancing back to her daughter, she nodded in approval and even performed a slight bow. "Thank your father, Chun. This is a gift of great honor indeed, Wei-Shan is one of the greatest artists in the empire."

As the green-eyed girl was now gazing up at him with the first expression of unreserved emotion he'd seen since arriving in the garden—almost the same as Jia had!—her last sibling was looking much more excited and eager herself; apparently the great value of both gifts, and the responses of her sisters and mother, had convinced Xiu that her father was on the up-and-up. And he had to admit Jia and Chun's reactions had enthused him too.

From the pack he brought out the last gift. "And for you, Xiu, I bring this: a new friend, wearing the latest fashion for girls in the Imperial City." The doll in question was of course a snow leopard, wearing an elaborate headdress and clad in a narrow-sleeved, three-collared dress with pleated skirts, all in pale shades of yellow and cream. A richly-embroidered cape draped over the shoulders, known as a 'Rosy Cloud' due to its shape and hue, completed the ensemble. It was a work of art, worth a fortune...but he couldn't fail to miss the disappointment, even anger, on his eldest daughter's face.

Holding the toy in her paw, which quivered and flexed as if it couldn't decide whether to let go and let it dangle like a rotten fish or squeeze it tightly until she had crushed it, Xiu looked up at him accusingly. "Really, Father?" she said flatly. "Either Mother didn't write about me very accurately in her letters, or you don't know _anything_ about me."

"Xiu!" The word popped out of Qing as if she'd been stabbed in the bottom, and when he turned to look at her he was pleased to see the snow leopardess was glaring down, appalled and horrified. But what she said next made the relief and approval turn to a chill of nauseated unease in his belly. "No matter how insulting a gift may be, you must always accept it with grace, poise, and charm! Especially when it is one so clearly expensive and valuable. And if I _ever_ hear another word of criticism against me pass through your lips…"

Before he could unlock his throat and force words from his dry tongue, the little girl, looking torn between guilt and rebellious fury, finally held the doll properly and looked up at him as she gave a stiff, jerky bow. "I apologize, Father. It is...beautiful. But...not really my thing." Her voice dropped to a mutter. "A good knife would have been better. Or at least a set of kung fu scrolls."

It took several tries before he could speak, and he still didn't think he'd succeeded in keeping all the distress and disgust from his voice. "Oh. I'm sorry, Xiu. I had no idea...perhaps next time?"

Her smile this time was less forced, though there was still a brittleness to it that unsettled him. "All right."

Clapping her paws together, Qing drew his attention again, and to his even greater unease, she acted as if nothing untoward had at all occurred, her voice a purr of droll cheerfulness and warmth. "Well then, now that that's settled, why don't we sit down for a little lunch? I can have the servants bring it to the pavilion."

"Can we have ours out here, Mother?" Xiu said, her tone more reverent and respectful than that of the lowliest of servants speaking to the Emperor. "I mean, us and Mei Ling." She flicked her blue eyes knowingly aside to the mountain cat, who looked as unhappy and ill as he himself felt, then offered a wide-eyed look and a smile so innocent that he would have instantly disbelieved it even if he hadn't seen her previous behavior. "We _are_ sisters, after all. It's important for us to spend time together, don't you think?"

Qing smiled, and it was up for debate whether hers made him feel worse than Xiu's or not. "Yes, I think that's a fine idea. Run along then, we'll be here watching you." And somehow, despite his extreme misgivings, despite the fact she had just commandeered his own child and taken control of the situation without even consulting him, he found he could not say no—not in her own house, not in front of Chun and Jia, and not when he was rather afraid what she would do if he dared.

So in short order he and the elegant but still deadly snow leopardess were seated in a tiny pavilion carved with intricate ginkgo wood panels, and _chiwen_ at each roof corner to swallow evil influences and fire alike, which stood on the island of rock they'd been heading toward earlier. The low table to be found there was soon laid out with eating utensils and baskets of steaming, aromatic food, as if they were having their own picnic despite the expensive serving dishes and the elite, fancy menu. But Xuan was too distracted and dismayed to even be aware of just what he was eating (an act itself he was surprised he could manage, considering he'd lost just about all of his appetite), for all his attention was divided between the woman with him and the children playing in a garden that had lost its tranquility.

The snow leopardess filled the air for the next hour with all manner of stories and gossip, whether about how she had acquired her wealthy surroundings (she claimed it was an inheritance from her mother, but he knew he could not take that at face value) or what all she had been doing in the years they'd been apart. And while he had to admit she seemed to know better than to tell him of any assassination she'd performed that was too twisted and dark, or where the target had not been a heinous and wicked soul or enemy of the empire, the fact she otherwise still expected him to approve or even enjoy her tales made him even more sick to his stomach.

Even when he was able to get a word in edgewise and speak about his own experiences in Beijing for those years, she managed to find ways to turn the conversation back to her profession—as, for example, when he had sorrowfully told the full story of how Yong had fallen in battle, defending Chen from the Huns, and Qing had observed that she'd have been happy to take out the Hun chieftain for them, if they'd only asked, and thus prevented that war before it had ever begun.

Trying to find some way to contribute to the conversation, he had begun telling the story of how he and Yong had thwarted the Yunnan assassin's attempt on Chen's life when the sounds of giggling and conversation from out in the garden suddenly changed. Hearing raised voices, then what sounded like a cry of either fear or horror, he broke off and lurched to his feet, staring toward the more distant wall, alongside the bridge which crossed the lake. And as soon as he saw exactly what was happening he was off like an arrow from a bow, ignoring Qing's indignant protests, focused only on leaping as fast as he could to intervene.

Unfortunately by the time he got across the ancient span, it was too late. In the small gladed hollow by the lakeshore, his four daughters were arrayed about, rather like the numerous ancient _penjing_ arranged in surprising, artfully unexpected places in the garden. In fact Mei Ling stood directly between two of them, frozen in place as if she were bound even though he could see nothing holding her there—nothing except fear and self-preservation.

For on the other side of the glade, Chun and Xiu stood poised. And while the former simply watched calmly and silently, eating a peach as if she were merely observing a display of artwork, the latter's little face was intent with determination, focus, and ferocity—and she held a knife in her hand, prepared to throw it toward Mei Ling and the second golden fruit perched atop her head!

Another shriek cut through the air, followed by a streak of gray from the side. Before he could even fully register its identity, everything was happening too quickly—another gleaming blur flew through the air, light shining from Xiu's knife as she threw it with upsettingly great force, but the first one reached Mei Ling before it did. The peach was suddenly left suspended in mid-air for a few seconds, speared by the knife blade, before it fell to the ground...because the other moving form, which turned out to be Jia, had carried Mei out from beneath the fruit, backwards out of the line of fire, so that both of them landed with a loud splash in the lake shallows.

By the time he arrived in the glade, panting, it was all over. Chun had not moved a millimeter from where she stood, only one little eyebrow lifted as she continued slowly chewing on her peach, though he thought he saw the quirk of a smile starting. Xiu lowered her arm back to her side, her look of exultant, gloating triumph turning to one of resentment, consternation, and sullen fury. And in the rippling, settling waters...Jia was giggling and laughing, half-hysterically but also in genuine merriment, bent double and clutching her sides, while Mei after a few moments of staring at her in disbelief and lingering terror was soon joining in!

Before he could still his pounding heart or approach Mei to make sure she was all right, he heard footsteps crunching on the path behind him. Turning, he caught Wu Qing just as she was shaking her head in denial, her eyes wide and disturbed. Coming to a stop at his side, she gripped the sides of her skirts and let out a disgusted sound. "What is _wrong_ with that child?"

Xuan narrowed his eyes; while he was glad to finally hear her show distress over Xiu's attitude and actions, he rather thought she had learned them all from her mother, whether through direct instruction or subconscious imitation. "Don't you think you're being a little harsh? I mean, that was a rather cruel and vicious game, and she does need to be taught you don't toy with others that way, especially your own relation, but she does seem to take very well to weapons fighting—"

"Not Xiu," she snapped, scoffing openly. "_Jia_."

For a moment he thought she was playing a very poor joke, particularly when he looked over his shoulder and saw that while Mei had climbed out of the lake and was trying her best to wring her soaked clothes dry, Jia was still in the water and had somehow managed to twist herself into an upside-down knot that placed her head between her feet and was waddling toward shore like a duck. He couldn't hold back the instinctive snort of laughter.

But when he looked back at Wu Qing and saw the furious, stern glower had not left her face by even a fraction, he felt his heart sink and his stomach grow more nervous than ever. "What? I...I can't believe you'd…" Spluttering, he gestured toward where Xiu was standing, still fuming and annoyed. "She tried to throw daggers at _my daughter!_ She could have _killed_ her! And all Jia did was try to _save her_!"

Very slowly the snow leopardess turned her frigid gaze to him, and her lip curled in one of the nastiest, most mocking sneers he had ever seen, especially on a woman's face. "What are you blathering about? Are you accusing my daughter of being a poor marksman? Do you really think I have taught her that poorly? Your _precious_ Mei was in no danger—other than from Jia daring to interfere and throw off Xiu's aim. She should have been _proud_ to help her sibling with her training!"

She paused, then her expression changed, turning to a grudging smile that became more broad and pleased with each passing moment as she looked at something over his shoulder. "Now _that_ is the way a Wu should act."

He turned again—and saw that Xiu was no longer where he had last seen her. Instead she now knelt in the grass where the impaled peach had fallen...the dagger had been pulled free...and she was using it with a methodical and no-nonsense dispassion more frightening than any viciousness or malice to cut off the head of the doll he had given her.

Horrified anew, the snow leopard swung back to confront the cold-hearted assassin. "_What_ in the name of Shang Ti are you _thinking?! _How can you encourage such...such...barbarity! That is _not _the way a lady should act—or _any _civilized person!" He quivered with his rage, and his fear.

Qing only regarded him with a raised eyebrow and that same sneer, her posture rigid, stiff, and uncompromising. "And I suppose you think I should raise her to be a perfect porcelain doll like your Xu Mei? Like any of the pampered palace maidens? Sweet, demure, innocent, speaking only when spoken to, the property of her father and brothers and uncles until such time as she is sold away in veritable slavery to her husband? With no rights, no purpose other than to bear children and run his household, no soul, no _life_?"

"Of course not!" Not even bothering to correct her extremely erroneous view of his wife, he spread his paws and pointed at Xiu again. "But there's a _big_ difference between freeing our daughters of that life...and what you've created and encouraged in her!"

Snorting, the woman he thought he had known but who had turned out to be someone else—some_thing_ else—shook her head and turned to stride past him toward the lake. "What I have created," she hissed softly, "is one who is strong. One who will let no man control or dominate her. One who will show all of China that women are not to be dismissed and ignored any longer. One who will inspire fear, respect, and envy in all she meets. One who will make the Wu line proud." She gestured peremptorily toward Jia, who was just emerging from the water. "_That_ will never do so. _That _will never bring honor to our line, or show true respect to me, unless I _make_ her. Perfection is what I demand, and it is what I will receive! She must be carefully taught..."

Xuan started toward her, but the snow leopardess had already snatched hold of Jia's ear and jerked her off the ground. Shrieking in pain, she quickly untwisted herself, and once she was dangling upright once more, Qing let her drop. "Get up! Make yourself presentable! You make me ashamed!"

From where she still knelt by the ruins of her doll, Xiu rose with a gleeful grin once more, and when she spoke it was in a singsong that made his blood turn to ice. "You're in trouble…"

Lip trembling, eyes wide and bulging and brimming over with tears, Jia complied. "But—but Mama—"

"That is _not_ how you address me!"

"But _lìngtáng_—"

"And I did not give you leave to speak!" When Jia froze not only in absolute silence but stillness as well, Qing nodded once, firmly; when she spoke her voice was quieter, but no less dismissive. In fact there was such a cold, harsh fury in it that it was worse than if she had continued to raise her voice and shout at her. "Now. If you wish to remain in this household, to retain your birthright, and to expunge this stain of dishonor from you, you must comport yourself with the proper respect—for me, for our family, for all that has been earned and sacrificed to bring us where we are today. Do you understand me? If you do not, I will _make_ you respect me."

"I understand, _lìngtáng_! I really, really do!"

Qing lifted her chin haughtily. "Then you know what to do. Recite them. In order. Until I tell you to cease."

Jia looked frightened and trapped, but also drooping in despair. Slowly she nodded, closed her eyes, and began. Beyond her, Xuan could see her eldest sister still watching and smirking, a perfect imitation of her mother's wicked expression but with a trace of something else...insanity? He shuddered.

"Qiong. Dai. Cui. Na—"

"Wrong! Again."

"Qiong. Dai. Na. Cui. Liqin. Tian. Bai—"

"Again!"

"Qiong. Dai. Na. Cui. Liqin. Tian. Ju. Bai. Ying. Song—"

"_Again! _"

By this time tears were streaming openly down the little girl's face, and she was so choked up she could barely even pronounce the names of her ancestresses correctly, let alone in generational order. Xuan saw the fury blazing higher in Qing's eyes, but before he could intervene, it was Mei Ling who leaped in front of her sibling, arms spread and feet planted firmly as she glared up hatefully. "_No! _You leave her _alone_! You're just mean, and nasty, and _evil! _"

For a moment, the snow leopard thought—no, he was certain—Qing was going to strike her, as she'd clearly intended to do to Jia. And in that same moment, he finally overcame his shock, fear, and disbelief, stepping forward and grabbing the woman by the wrist—not only arresting her motion but hard enough to hurt. "I think," he said slowly, with a deep and menacing growl, "that you'd better step away from her, Qing. Because if you don't...if you dare to hit my daughter...it will be the last thing you ever do."

Despite how skilled she had been—and likely still was—in the many ways to kill a man, something in his tone stopped her, and for a moment he saw a trace of fear in those cold, cold aquamarine eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by contempt and menace. "And I think you...had better leave. And never return."

"Good. We were just going." Moving over to the girls, he made quite certain his back was to Qing and blocking her view before he glared down at Xiu; while he would never strike a child, not even his own, not even one as apparently unbalanced as this one, he _would_ let her know she had crossed a line and would not be given any more chances to repeat it if she knew what was good for her.

Clenching his jaw, he whispered only two words: "Never. _Again_." To his great satisfaction (even as it still made his guts twist in knots to know how much he was being like Qing in this moment), the blue-eyed girl actually swallowed hard, her smile sliding off her face as she stared back at him in solemn silence.

Turning to Chun, who had done nothing as far as he could tell whether to intervene or encourage what had happened, he softened his expression to one of gravity and strength, reaching down to rest his paw on her shoulder. "Not taking sides can be a wise course. It can let you be objective, understand all sides before making a decision. But just remember, my dear: someday you _will_ have to decide. Choose wisely." She nodded back but said nothing.

Finally he turned to Jia...and knelt down in front of her, gathering her into his arms and holding her close to his strong chest. As if this had been a signal, she collapsed against him, sobbing into his _ru_, and all he could do was hold her, murmuring reassuring words in her ear while his large paws cradled and caressed the back of her head.

When at last her tears had run their course (which he was surprised Qing had allowed, but he supposed she assumed once Jia had gotten over her 'fit' she would be more pliable for her), he pulled back and gazed down into those big, pleading eyes...which despite their hue were so much like Mei Ling's that his heart nearly broke to look at them. "Jia...I am so sorry. I wish I could stay...could protect you. But your mother won't allow it, and if I want any chance she might treat you less harshly, I have to do as she says. When you're older though, you can come visit me in Kunlun Shan whenever you want, you and Chun both. You will always be welcome with me and Xu Mei. I promise."

Wiping away her tears and sniffling audibly, the snow leopardess nodded. "I believe you, Baba. I will."

Catching sight of something in the grass behind her—the book he had given her—Xuan took her chin in his fingers and fixed her with his gaze one last time. "Until that day comes, I want you to remember something, besides the fact I love you. Remember: no matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are. Can you do that?"

Jia rose up straight and adopted a brave look. "I sure can, Baba. I promise."

Letting out a slow sigh, he rose back to his feet, took Mei Ling's paw, and began leading her down the path, across the garden, toward the latticed and pillared walk that would lead them to the door. As he passed Wu Qing, he said, "We can show ourselves out, thank you."

She sniffed, nose elevated as only a feline could do. "Such a pity. You could have been great. You could have had everything as my consort. I had _such _hopes for your darker instincts...but you have thrown that all away now. How pathetic."

He met her gaze one last time, fought down the urge to vomit as well as to lash out at her with all his claws unsheathed, and instead gave her a fiendishly calm, confident smile. "Consider it my highest honor." And with that he turned and strode away.

Behind him, after a very long moment of quiet whose meaning he could not fathom, Wu Xuan heard Xiu speak up at last. "I don't get it. You always told us he had such savagery in him. That he was ready to be just like us, if he was willing to let it go and give in. That he was so dark, and so strong."

Her mother spoke as imperiously as any empress, and when he dared to glance back he saw she stood in similar fashion, poised and looming above her daughters as if looking down from her throne. "It seems I misjudged him. He is weak. Forget about him. Now, my perfect daughter, tell me the code."

For a brief moment something—her tone, her choice of words—seemed to make Xiu flinch. But then she had that same vindictive little smirk right back on her face. "There is no right, there is no wrong; there is no good, there is no evil…"

The beige cat shuddered, turning firmly away and refusing to ever look back. But as he and Mei Ling reached the walk and hurried back toward the mountain slope where the stairs would lead them away from this gods-forsaken place, he remembered something that made that chill settle into a cold solid lump in his stomach he didn't think would ever be dislodged. Xu Mei wasn't the only one who had warned him about Qing.

Yong had too. For during the year of his courtship of the mountain cat, he had also finally confessed what had happened in Shanghai to his best friend as well. And after commiserating with his plight, reassuring Xuan he had lost no respect for him and would still stand by him through thick and thin, the bigger snow leopard had considered what he'd told him about that shadowy encounter and then uttered a few fateful words which he knew would always stay with him.

"**_Keep your own counsel, my friend, do what you think is right, what must be done. But I hope you know what you're doing, Xuan...because one day I fear that woman'll be the death of you."_**

He'd laughed it off then, even as he understood where it was coming from. But now, seeing her again...experiencing Qing's coldness, her pitiless ruthlessness which gave her her name, and adding to it this new harshness and arrogance, this dark and undeniable evil to which he had been blind...or never wanted to admit was there...Xuan had to wonder, and to pray more than ever that Yong had not been right too.

_All the more reason to stay far away, and never come back. Keep Mei away too. Then everything will be all right_...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of terms of address in this one: _qīn_ = dear; _zūnjià_ = you the respected one (of higher social status); _lìngtáng_ = the beautiful and dignified one (mother); _shèngjià_ = His Majesty; _zūnshàng_ = the respected one above (father), _ā mèi_ = my dear younger sister. The cheetah in the gambling den is another shout-out to Ilien's "Book of Changes", Isidorus of Alexandria (apparently he traveled much farther east because he never met Tai Lung in Kashgar?), while Wei-Shan (also mentioned in Chapter 2 of "Lessons for the Future") is from Marie's "From Scratch." A number of the names of ancestors in the Wu line which Jia was forced to recite are shout-outs to other names given to the Wu Sisters in other fanfics: Tian ("Soaring Dragon, Dancing Phoenix"), Bai ("From Scratch"), and Song and Ying ("Memoirs of a Master"). 
> 
> A good portion of the garden description comes from the Lan Su Garden in Portland which I mentioned visiting in the notes for "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun", but the rest comes from the mansion of Ursa and Ozai in _Avatar: the Last Airbender_. For that matter, I'm sure you can recognize the interactions of little Zuko, Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee in Mei Ling and the Wu Sisters, with variations, except that in this scenario it's the mother who is the cruel, harsh, overly-domineering parent and the father who is kind, loving, and protective (right down to Xuan having one of Ursa's most well-known lines, and her disturbed line about Azula being transplanted to Qing in regards to Jia). Just another way for me to show how the backstory I gave the Wu Clan is a reversal of the Fire Nation royal family, but with the same kind of insanity and megalomania at its core. That, and Qing's plan was a lot more subtle, cautious, and in some ways diabolical than Ozai's.
> 
> And now you also know just how and when and why Xuan and Qing got together to have the Wu Sisters, seen just where Xiu got her evil from (but also how some of it was just part of her inner nature and inclinations), gotten some foreshadowing as well as hints at what Chun and Jia would become, and some explanations of what were until now cryptic references to the past.

**Author's Note:**

> Text copyrighted 2015. Originally posted on Fanfic Dot Net. Enjoy!


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